


In Another Life

by Blaumeise



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ghosts, Gothic, Haunted Houses, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25376419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blaumeise/pseuds/Blaumeise
Summary: Aunt Cecilia had been 'the weird one' in Slash's family and if she was any weirder than he was himself, it was surely worth to have a look at the house she had left him. And so Slash takes a break from touring and travels all the way to rural England to inspect his heritage with Duff traipsing faithfully along in his wake.
Relationships: Duff McKagan/Slash
Comments: 30
Kudos: 26





	1. Underhill Cottage

_So they took up Jonah, and cast him forth into the sea; and the sea ceased from its raging._

_Jonah 1:15_

\---------------------------

**Underhill Cottage**

"Sheep!" Duff exclaimed for about the hundredth time and Slash was ready to gag him with a handful of wool. "Look, they've got black heads." He tried to get his feet up on the dashboard, but his knees hit against his nose and so he just stretched his legs out and slouched deeper into the seat. "I had no idea how many different types of sheep there are. I thought sheep were sheep, you know. Looks like I was wrong."

"Yeah," Slash mumbled while the car rattled over yet another cattle-grid.

'Careful!!! Lambs!!!!' a handwritten sign warned and Slash bit back a laugh. As if he hadn't noticed yet. The blasted sheep had the habit to lie behind bends, cross the road without warning or jump in front of the car, and the last thing he needed was a bleeding, dying lamb attached to the hood. And if it wasn't sheep, then there were flocks of suicidal birds running from left to right and right to left. Birds were supposed to fly, but apparently not up here. Here birds travelled on foot. 

"Do we have some more sandwiches?" Duff craned his neck backwards and then twisted his arms around the seat to reach for the backpack that had fallen off the backseat a couple of miles ago. With a triumphant 'hah', he dragged it into his lap and rummaged through its meagre content. 

"You had one barely an hour ago," Slash said, but Duff only shrugged. 

"I'm bored," he said. "There's nothing to look at but sheep. In different colours, OK, but still sheep."

"Nobody said you had to come," Slash snapped. Sure, it was unfair to blame Duff for the bleak countryside, the moors and more moors, the hills and heathers, but he was there, he was handy and he should fulfil his purpose to entertain him and make the long drive bearable. Instead he munched himself through their provisions and pointed out sheep.

"Want a half?" Duff asked and held up the sandwich. "Or a cigarette? Or something to drink? Or want me to drive for a while? Or…"

"It's OK," Slash interrupted him. "Give me the cigarette."

Duff lit one and placed it carefully between Slash's lips. 

"Look!" he exclaimed and almost knocked the cigarette out of his mouth again. "Black sheep. Wow, all of them. They look like you! Black and curly."

Slash growled a couple of obscenities, but Duff didn't even notice. 

"I wonder if they mind being outside," he said. "I mean, I bet it's starting to rain later, it already looks like it, you know. Do you think your aunt had sheep, too? And what are you going to do with them? Are you going to keep them? Can you take them home and keep them in the yard? Are you…"

"No," Slash interrupted him. "There's only the house. The will didn't mention any sheep. And it's not going to rain." At least he hoped he wouldn't have to deal with livestock. A cottage in rural England … very rural England … was bad enough, and the longer the journey took, the more he was convinced that he should have just asked somebody to sell it and send him the money. 

It was curiosity that had driven him up all the way North. His Aunt Cecilia had been 'the weird one' in his family and if she was any weirder than he was himself, it was surely worth to have a look at the house she had left him. 

"Why don't you tell me something about your aunt?" Duff had given up on the sandwich after only a coupe of bites. 

Slash shook his head when Duff offered him the leftovers, and so he put them away and settled for a cigarette himself. 

"Because there isn't anything to tell. I didn't even know her. She's been living at war with the rest of the family for … forever. Before I was born at least. I think even before my father was born."

Duff looked impressed. Family feuds of that degree were unknown to him. His own clan was a rowdy but affectionate bunch. They fought and made up on a constant basis, but all in all there was no chance that any of them got lost in the process. 

"Why?" he asked eventually and Slash shrugged. 

"I don't know. Nobody ever talked much about her. She was my father's cousin, quite a bit older than he was, and all I know is that Aunt Cecile was a bit mad and lived in that old house in the middle of nowhere and refused to talk to anybody. When they sent her letters, they came back with a stamp 'acceptance denied', and I suppose eventually they just gave up."

"Then why did she leave you the house? That's strange, you know."

Slash agreed. It was strange. And it was exactly the reason why he hadn't just asked somebody to sell the cottage for him, but had decided to have a look himself. 

"Maybe there's some kind of dark, mysterious secret behind all this," Duff continued. His fascination with sheep had worn off, and he needed something else to latch on to. "Maybe she isn't really dead. If nobody has seen her in decades, how can they be sure it was her they have buried? Maybe she has kidnapped another old woman, has killed her and faked her own death. And now she's luring us into a trap to execute her revenge for… I don't know what. Or maybe she has died ages ago, and all those years an impostor has taken her place, and that’s why she has ceased all contact. And now …"

"Shut up and look at the map," Slash growled. Sometimes Duff's imagination was a trifle too hyperactive. 

"Why?" Duff asked and unfolded the OS Travel Map they had bought at the airport. "There's just one road, I don't think even you could get lost."

"You'll never know. So, how many miles until we have to turn left?"

Duff brought the map so close to his face that he almost touched it with the tip of his cigarette. With their luck Duff would burn their destination right out of it. Slash wouldn't be surprised if they arrived at the village only to find it burned to the ground. If somebody managed to destroy a complete village without meaning to, it was Duff. 

"Depends," Duff stared out of the window and then back onto the map. 

"Depends on what?"

"Whether we have already passed this blue blotch here or not. I can't remember. They should rather enter the sheep into the map, you know. White-sheep-area, black-sheep-area, white-sheep-with-black-faces-area, brown-sheep…"

"OK,” Slash snapped. “That's enough!" 

Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to take Duff with him. Yes, he was the nicest guy in the world, but he could be fucking infuriating at times. Only the alternative would have been to go alone, and that was an even more uncomfortable thought. Listening to Duff's sheep-stories was a small price for having company. 

"You're a bit edgy, you know." Duff packed the map away. "Are you nervous?"

"No, why would I?" Slash accepted another cigarette and snitched the old stump out of the window. 

"Dunno. Maybe because it's getting dark and rainy. I can already smell it. I bet it's gonna rain before we arrive."

"It doesn't…" A big raindrop hit the windscreen. "Since when are you predicting the weather, huh?" 

Slash didn't begrudge Duff his triumph. It didn't matter whether it rained or not. It couldn't take more than another hour before they reached Underhill Cottage where Aunt Cecile's housekeeper, one ominous Ms Brompton, hopefully expected them. If not, it didn't matter either. If necessary, he would smash a window to get inside. It was his house, he could burn it to the ground, if he wanted.

Then why did he feel all of a sudden like coming up here had been the biggest mistake of his life?

###

The last stretch of the journey took longer than expected and eventually Slash wondered if they would make it before nightfall. First, they had missed the washed-out dirt track that should have been their turn left. The detour had cost them almost an hour and now they were lost in a labyrinth of winding single-track roads. The car crept along tiny and tinier roads, while high, impenetrable hedges closed in on them until Slash was sure, they would swallow them up and devour them like carnivorous plants. 

Driving faster than 20 mph was impossible and often enough even that was too much. The map wasn’t any help at all and Duff, the appointed navigator, was now relying exclusively on his not very reliable sense for direction. Every now and then a faded sign post pointed towards some village and Slash was convinced that they had passed the same road marker at least three times already.

To make things even more unpleasant, the weather turned worse by the minute. In addition to the rain, fog crept in and the vision turned from bad to almost non-existent. 

Then, all of a sudden, when Slash had started to wish for a signal pistol, the countryside opened up again. They were still unable to see any further than the border of the road, but at least the hedges were gone and they were back to driving through moorland. 

Finally, much to his relief, another signpost announced their destination. A couple of houses along a single street made up all of the village, but Slash couldn’t have been happier if they had passed the border of Los Angeles. 

“Stop!” Duff called out, when he spotted one of the locals coming out of the small village shop. 

The car had barely come to a halt when he was already out of the door and running across the street. Slash saw him gesticulate wildly while the woman seemed to be unwilling to stand in the rain and talk to a shaggy, weirdly dressed stranger, but Duff was, if anything, persistent. Minutes later he returned to the car, shaking droplets out of his hair like a wet dog. 

“There’s a little road to the cottage,” he said. “Right out of the village, and then to the right and across the river.”

The ‘road’ turned out to be a dirt track full of potholes, that led down to an unreliable-looking bridge over a little river. Slash stopped the car and, rain or not, got out. He walked over and stared at the construction. Driving across that contraption didn’t seem like a good idea. 

“Maybe we should leave the car here and walk,” he suggested, when Duff appeared next to him. 

“What, and then carry all our stuff?” Duff turned his nose up into the rain. “In this weather?”

“Better than drown,” Slash replied. The water was churned up, looking black and dangerous in the rapidly fading daylight. 

“Fuck this, I’ll drive.” Duff turned on his heel and before Slash could stop him, he had started the engine and steered towards the bridge. 

Slash watched with growing anticipation. The front tires made contact with the first planks and all of a sudden, dread turned into full blown panic. He stood rooted in place, wet hair plastered to his face, the shoulders of his jacket already soaking through, while he helplessly watched Duff drive to his doom. Before his inner eye he saw the bridge crack and break, the car crash into the river, heard Duff scream and watched him drown. 

He wanted to run after him, stop him, tell him to get out and run, but instead he stood frozen in place, while the car crept on in slow motion. He breathed a sigh of relief when it was finally over. Duff, all safe and sound, got out and waved. 

“You coming, or what?” he yelled. “Want me to come back and carry you?”

Slash shook his head, trying to get the images of death and destruction out of his mind. He was not sure what had come over him, but was determined to shoo it away. It took all his courage, but then he ran across the bridge and climbed back into the car. 

They were almost there and to his relief the fog lifted a little bit and allowed view not only on the surrounding countryside, but also the house up the road. 

"Didn't you say it was a cottage?" Duff shut off the engine. 

"Yeah," Slash said. "That's what it said. Underhill Cottage."

"Underhill is OK." Duff opened the door. "But if that is a cottage, then I'm living in a molehill." 

He left the car and marched without the slightest hesitation along the grassy path and towards the huge, grey stone-building. The name-giving hill loomed large behind the house, its summit lost in fog and rain-clouds, and Slash expected an avalanche of mud and stones to roll down its slopes any moment. 

Duff was right. Calling the house a cottage was the mother of understatements; three stories of rough quarry-stones, most of them hidden behind vine and ivory, a couple of chimneys on the roof and a garden that was surrounded by a solid six-feet-high wall. 

The rain grew even heavier, but Slash stood still and stared while thick fog crept down the hill and the last of daylight faded away. 

"What's wrong?" Duff turned around, the jacket pulled over his head against the rain. 

"Nothing," Slash replied and made the first step while everything inside him screamed to just get back into the car and leave. 

He had spotted a pub down in the village, and according to the sign it had rooms to let. They could take up residency down there and come back by morning. Or they could just leave and forget about the house, pretend it didn't even exist and hope it would rot and fall to pieces.

"Slash?" Duff stretched a hand out and Slash hurried to catch up to him. 

It was only a couple of steps before they reached the door; solid, carved wood with a huge cast-iron knocking-ring instead of a doorbell. Duff picked it up and hammered it against the door as if he had to rouse a sleeping army in the face of the approaching enemy.

"Anybody home?" he yelled and Slash was close of shutting him up. Talking too loud would only wake up something that was better left asleep. "Hey there!"

"Do you have to scream like that?" Slash hissed. 

"Yeah, I have to." Duff gave him a confused look. "Nobody's opening. Do you want to stand here all night?"

"There was a pub…," Slash started, but before he could finish the sentence a lamp was lit behind one of the windows and then the door opened. It creaked as it was dragged slowly over the stone-floor and eventually they made out a tall woman in a knee-long, grey skirt and a neatly pressed, slightly darker blouse. Her hair, the same colour as her clothes, was pulled back into something his grandmother used to call a chignon, and which immediately brought the cliché of the old maiden librarian back to live. 

"Hiya, Ma'am," Duff said and stretched out his hand. "Ms Brompton? We're a bit late, but Slash here got lost on the pass-road, I mean, there was only one wrong turn you could take and you betcha, he managed."

The woman granted him nothing more than a brief scrutinize before her gaze settled on Slash. She may have been old, but there was nothing dim about her eyes. They were sharp and bird-like, little black peas that made him pull his jacket tighter around himself in a fruitless effort to escape the chill they emitted. 

"You must be the young Mr Hudson," she said, her voice as cold as her eyes. "You might be trying to hide it, but let me tell you, it's useless. There is something about that family that makes it impossible to mistake a member for anything but a Hudson."

"Yeah, I suppose," Slash stammered, unable to tear away from her stare. 

"You'd better come in then," she said. "You and your… friend." 

Duff grinned and Slash wondered how he managed to not be intimidated. This was his house and still he felt like an intruder. Maybe Ms Brompton was only the housekeeper, but to him she rather seemed to be part of the building; grey and weathered as the stones it was made off and just as impenetrable. She was the true mistress of this mansion, not because some document said so, but because she and the house had become one over the years, had grown around and through each other until it was impossible to say where one ended and the other started. The skimpy piece of paper that called him ‘owner’ would not be able to separate them. 

What had he been thinking coming up here? It was a journey destined for failure at best, and Slash couldn't chase the feeling away that failure was the least of the troubles waiting for them.


	2. Lord of the Manor

**Lord of the Manor**

"What a little ray of sunshine she is, huh?" Duff whispered. 

They were alone in the living-room. Ms Brompton had shown them the kitchen, the bath and the master bedroom before she had 'retired'. 

"Nobody goes to bed at eight o'clock." Duff threw himself onto the couch, letting his legs dangle over the armrest. 

Slash didn't mind that she was gone. He had asked her to call him Slash, but she seemed to enjoy saying 'Mr Hudson' about every other minute. It freaked him out. In addition, he couldn't stop puzzling about what exactly this striking family-resemblance was she seemed to see in him. He had always assumed he came more after his mother. From the looks she cast at him it couldn't be anything pleasant. 

The living-room was smaller than he had thought, given the dimensions of the house. The ceiling was low and carried by heavy, smoke-blackened wood-beams. They had switched on every lamp there was, but the results were meagre. The house seemed to suck up light the same way it sucked the warmth out of his bones. 

The flowery wallpaper had yellowed and the oriental pattern of the carpet had been worn away over the years. The furniture, although sturdy and probably once of high quality, looked shabby. Little figurines occupied the shelves, dried flowers gathered dust in stoneware jugs, and water colour drawings faded away in their frames. It was a room that once upon a time had been decorated with lots of love, but had then been left to whither away over decades. 

The only new item was the stove. Central heating had never been installed, instead each room was equipped with a small multi-fuel stove. A couple of coal-lumps smouldered behind the glass-screen, but it didn't help much against the damp. He was suddenly glad that he hadn’t brought a guitar. It would only have suffered in this atmosphere. 

Slash absolutely didn't mind when Duff pulled a bottle of vodka out of the backpack. They cuddled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped around both of them, and Slash tried to soak up a little bit of Duff’s warmth. 

"Just a drop," Duff said and eyed the label with regret. "Not the whole bottle. I bought only one to stick to the rule, you know."

He sighed and Slash stifled a smile. They all had agreed to cut back on the heavy stuff, which meant no more heroin and less of everything else. Usually those agreements ended in an everlasting series of people falling off the wagon and climbing back on, only to tumble right off again two weeks later. But currently it seemed to be working. Even Steven had been doing halfway well when they had left. 

Slash was truly grateful that he was clean. It would be impossible to find a dealer out here in the boondocks, and the idea of going through the shakes in this house, was nightmarish. It was creepy enough the way it was. 

He took the bottle out of Duff's hands and uncapped it.

"You need something to warm you up in this chill," he said and took a sip. 

"Yeah." Duff crouched a little nearer and Slash put an arm around him, pulling him close. 

Ms Brompton had offered to make up an extra bedroom for Duff, but without even asking for his opinion, Slash had refused. If he had ever needed Duff close, then it was tonight, not only because he was warm and a good lay, but because he couldn’t shake the weird feeling that something horrible was about to happen to Duff. Leaving him out of sight for a whole night wasn't a good idea, especially as Duff didn’t seem to notice that something in this house was out to get them. They would sleep in the same bed, end of discussion. 

"You know what we're doing now?" Duff asked after a couple of sips. "We have a look into the other rooms."

"What?" Slash sputtered. "Now?" 

"Sure, now." Duff sat up. "Come on, let's go. It's your house, we have the right to snoop around as much as we want."

"Yeah, but I'm too tired," Slash said, knowing it sounded lame. "Let's do it tomorrow, OK?" The idea to sneak through the house - this house - in the middle of the night was enough to send icy shudders down his back. 

"Oh, OK. Yeah, you did most of the driving after all." Duff sounded so disappointed that Slash almost did him the favour and agreed to a late-night-exploration. Almost. The creaking of the ceiling-beams, the wind howling in the chimney, the rain rapping against the window-panes, the pitch-black darkness outside, it was enough to assure him that it was safer to just stay by the fire. 

A TV would have been nice, anything that would have made a bit of counter noise, but there wasn’t even a radio in the house. 

"You know…," Duff started, but he didn't finish the sentence and Slash didn't ask him to. He stretched out on the couch, put his head into Slash's lap and fell silent. Slash rearranged the blanket around them and together they stared into the smouldering coals while the chill crept out of the walls and into their bones. 

"You know," Duff said after an eternity of silence. "If you're so tired we could just go to bed."

"Yeah," Slash said, but didn't move. He would have preferred to stay in the living-room, sleep on the floor if necessary. Only to do that he would have to tell Duff the reason; that he would never be able to close an eye in the bed Aunt Cecile had died in, and then Duff would laugh about him for at least a century. 

"Come on," Duff said. He stood up and stretched both hands out. "Get up. No need to fall asleep on this corpse of a couch if there's a perfect bed waiting for us upstairs."

Slash took his hands and Duff pulled him up. He allowed Duff to lead him up the old, gnarling staircase and through the dark corridors to the master-bedroom, and only when Duff suddenly turned around and cast him a worried look, did Slash notice how tightly he had been holding on to Duff's hand. He loosened his grip and chastised himself for being a pussy. Next thing he would start singing nursery rhymes to chase the ghosts away. 

"There we are," Duff said and pushed the door to their bedroom open. "This is where the lord and the lady used to sleep." He snickered and switched on the ceiling lamp. 

The light was dim at best and did nothing to brighten the room. Dying might have been rather a relief than a burden if one was confined to this place; the dark furniture, the stuffy pillows on the four-poster bed and the heavy curtains in front of the windows made it easy to forget that there was a world outside. It would have sucked the energy out of a healthier person than a fragile, cancer-infested woman. 

"Come on," Duff said and pulled him onto the bed. "You know what? I just realized, but are you now some lord or something?"

"No." Slash wrapped his arms around Duff and put his head onto his chest. Duff's warmth seemed to be the only effective weapon against the cold. Not even the vodka had been able to leave a dent. "I'm just some guy who owns a big old house."

"Doesn't matter." Duff kicked off his shoes. Slash rolled off him when Duff turned onto his side and propped his head up on his hand. "We can pretend."

"Pretend?"

"Yeah." Duff chuckled. "You're the ruthless English lord and I'm the poor Irish kitchen-boy. You caught me while I tried to steel your silverware."

Slash laughed. 

"Oh, Mr Hudson, sir," Duff exclaimed. "Really I didn't do anything."

"That's what you're always saying, Duff," he went on. Apparently, Duff could play both roles without any assistance and Slash, not in the mood to play pretend anyway, was happy to let him carry on with this latest childishness. "Remember last time when you tried to steal my golden cuff-links?"

"Oh, but Mr Hudson, sir, that was a misunderstanding. I only wanted to keep them safe for you." 

"I don't think so, Duff. I think I have to call the sheriff."

"The sheriff?" Slash asked incredulously. “I don’t think they have sheriffs here.”

"Shut up," Duff smacked him lightly onto the head. "Then the cops, if that's better. I think I have to call the cops, Duff. You'll be deported to Australia."

"Oh, but Mr Hudson, sir, I have thirteen siblings. They are going to starve if I'm deported. And what should I do in Australia? I'm not a kangaroo."

"You should have thought about that before I caught you with your hands in my jewel-case. But I might give you a chance."

"I thought you were stealing silverware," Slash grumbled, mainly to have something to complain. He didn’t care either way. This was stupid. They never did any roleplaying in bed, they just fucked and that was all. 

"Stop ruining it," Duff said and smacked him again. "Really, what's wrong with you today?"

"Sorry." He really was. He had no reason to gripe at Duff, not after he had followed him all the way to this goddamn house. "Go on. I'll be good." He forced a smile.

"OK. I might give you a chance," Duff repeated, but Slash wasn't sure if it was Lord Slash giving kitchen-boy Duff a chance or real Duff being willing to overlook real Slash's stupid behaviour one last time. 

"Oh, thank you, Mr Hudson, thank you so much, sir, you won't regret it, I swear."

"I'd better not. Remember the last time I caught you stealing?"

"Yes."

"Remember what you had to do to make amends?"

"Oh. That. But Mr Hudson, sir, do you really think…"

"Yes, I really think," Slash said. With one quick movement he rolled Duff onto his back, grabbed his wrists and forced them down above his head. Duff struggled a little, but not enough to be seriously considered resistance. "And stop calling me Mr Hudson, or I'll cut off your balls before sending you to Australia, you thieving little piece of scum."

Duff giggled hysterically and Slash collapsed on top of him. He pushed his hand under Duff's shirt and came to the conclusion that naked skin was what he needed to settle his nerves. 

It was a strange arrangement, one that had begun a while ago without either of them really noticing. Slash still wasn't sure about what it meant to him. To Duff it was probably just convenience. His attitude to sex was comparable to that of a rabbit. But sometimes Slash got the feeling that at least for him there was more behind all the fucking and cuddling. It was a scary idea, one he preferred to keep at arm's length, but now and then he caught himself wishing that it meant more to Duff than quick relief when girls weren't handy. 

Stripping and getting down to town under the covers was a matter of minutes. Duff was willing and helpful, and his mouth and hands were warm enough to make Slash forget about the house and the cold. Maybe it wasn't the best sex they've ever had, but it was what he needed right now, and it struck him how lucky he was that he didn't even have to ask for it. Duff just knew, and he had turned it all into a ridiculous game of play pretend to make him laugh and spare him the embarrassment of having to request comfort-sex. 

"Feeling better?" Duff asked when they were both spent. Slash mumbled his agreement against his chest. "That's good. You were a bit tense." 

Duff shifted to pull the blanket closer around them. 

"Good night," Slash whispered and Duff snickered.

"But Mr Hudson, sir, what will the maid think when she comes in tomorrow morning to empty the chamber-pot?"

"That I had a fuckload of fun last night," Slash replied. "And stop calling me Mr Hudson. And tomorrow we'll have a closer look at the house."

"Cool," Duff said, but he sounded too sleepy to care. "Tomorrow then."

"Yeah," Slash whispered. "Tomorrow."

###

Slash lay still and stared into the darkness, while under his cheek Duff's chest rose and sank with perfect regularity. He couldn't say what had woken him, but it couldn't be anything good. The storm had increased. Making out any specific sounds was difficult, but he still had the feeling that someone was sneaking through the room. His body tensed. He could feel his muscles pull together, first in his shoulders, then his back, down to his legs and up to his arms. There it was again and this time there was no mistaking the sound. Steps. Somebody was in their room.

He sat up with a jerk and while he still fumbled for the switch of the little lamp on the nightstand, he saw how the door was carefully closed from the outside. Slash jumped out of bed, ripped the door open and stared down the dark corridor. His fingers scratched over the wall as he searched for the light switch, but when he finally, finally flicked it, nothing happened. 

"What's wrong?" Duff's sleepy voice was accompanied by rustling sheets and the creaking of spring-coils. 

"Somebody was in here," Slash said breathlessly. The corridor seemed empty, but without light he couldn't be sure. 

"Huh?" Naked feet padded over the floor and then Duff was beside him. "You were dreaming." 

"No, I'm sure." Slash stared down the corridor. He should go and have a look, but he couldn't bring himself to set even one foot over the doorstep. 

Duff tried the light switch, too. "Electricity's gone, I suppose. Did you see anybody?"

Had he? He wasn't sure. "Maybe there was a shadow," he said eventually.

"You were dreaming." Duff touched his shoulder and then he closed the door. "It's no miracle, really. The weather, the storm, the house. It's unsettling."

Duff didn't seem unsettled. He was calm and composed and if his words meant anything, then that he was aware that Slash behaved like a lunatic and didn't want to say so. 

"Somebody was in here, Duff!" He hadn't been dreaming and he wasn't a little kid who was scared by a storm. 

"Yeah, maybe Ms Brompton had a look. She's the only one here beside us, right? Maybe she was worried because of the storm and the electricity and wanted to check that we were OK."

Slash snorted. Ms Brompton wouldn’t care if the storm had flushed them down the river. 

"And how did she manage to vanish without a trace? Through a secret door?"

Duff sighed. "How about we ask her tomorrow morning? And if it wasn't her, then you have been dreaming. Come on, it's freaking cold and I don't feel like standing around naked all night."

Unless he wanted to sneak around the house in total darkness, giving in was the only option. Somehow Slash doubted that Duff was willing to leave his warm bed and going alone was too scary to even consider it. He pulled the curtains back, hoping that a little light from outside would make it into the room, but it was hopeless. 

"Just wait, tomorrow things are gonna brighten up," Duff said when they crawled back under the covers. 

"I didn't dream," Slash repeated. "And I'm not mad either."

"Nobody said you were mad." Duff yawned, indicating that he had no interest in broadening the subject any further. 

Slash stared at the window, watching gushes of rain wash over it while Duff's breathing quickly reassumed its quiet and even pattern. And then, for the fraction of a second, a face appeared outside the window, pale features with lifeless eyes under dripping-wet hair. 

Slash closed his eyes and crawled deeper into Duff's arms. Maybe he was really losing his mind. Maybe everybody who entered this house got insane after a while. Hopefully Duff was immune at least and would get him out of here before he turned just as mad as Aunt Cecile.


	3. During a Storm like This

**During a Storm like This**

Duff had been wrong. Morning came, but things didn't brighten up at all. When Slash woke, it seemed still to be around dawn, but a glance at the clock assured him that it was almost noon. 

"Got some sleep?" Duff, still comfortably stretched out over the pillows, reached up and pulled him down into a lazy kiss. 

"Yeah." It wasn't a total lie. Sleep had been a restless matter, but exhaustion had been stronger than fear and confusion. 

"Good." Duff smiled, then yawned and stretched his arms over his head. "Do you think there is a chance to get breakfast? Or at least coffee? We should have thought about buying something yesterday."

"The village is not so far and there was this little shop."

"Or maybe Ms Brompton is willing to feed us. You could try and play your charms a bit, you know."

Slash cast him a horrified glance. If anything, he was going to avoid Ms Brompton as much as possible. 

"Play your own charms," he grunted while he fished his clothes off the floor and pulled them under the blanket. The room was too cold to leave the bed undressed, and so he tried to put on pants and shirt without letting go of the cover. 

"I tried." Duff didn't have any qualms about leaving the bed; he had the ability to charge up his flesh and bones overnight, using the warmth of sleep. Stark naked he strutted through the room before he searched his bag for clean clothes. "She ignores me. But you, you're the young Mr Hudson and she can't ignore you, so it's you who has to wheedle breakfast out of her. I mean, technically you are her employer, aren’t you?"

Slash rolled his eyes. As if this house, and by extension Ms Brompton, cared about trivialities like employer-employee relationships. 

"Don't call me Mr Hudson," he said just for the sake of it. Duff would amuse himself with this stupid game until he found another, equally stupid and entertaining one, which could be today, in a week or never. 

They did get breakfast. Whatever Ms Brompton plans were, letting them starve to death wasn't one of them. 

"That was one hell of a night, wasn't it?" Duff asked, stuffing himself with bacon, eggs and toast. He had suffered gracefully through the lack of coffee and settled for tea instead. "Could you sleep all right, Ms Brompton?"

"Of course," she said and cast him a cold look that didn't unsettle Duff in the least. She had not only prepared breakfast, but also deigned to have a cup of tea with them, as, of course, she had eaten ages ago and was almost ready to have lunch.

"You weren't up around, say two in the morning? When the electricity went out?"

"Why would I?" she asked, her face a stony mask of indifference.

"Oh, Slash just thought he heard something and we wondered if maybe you couldn't sleep, that's all."

Slash cringed when she turned her attention on him. He may be her employer – technically – that didn’t stop him from feeling like an unruly boy at the headmistress’ office. 

"That doesn't surprise me. It's not an uncommon trait within the Hudson-family. There were several who suffered from … weak nerves."

"Really?" Duff seemed intrigued while Slash wasn't too eager to listen to stories about insane family-members. 

It wasn't that farfetched, he knew. There was a slight tendency towards eccentric behaviour within his relatives, but so far it had never bothered him. So what if Uncle Henry believed that his wife's ghost came for a visit every Christmas? It was slightly nuts, but had never turned into a bigger problem. Apart from that he was a nice, elderly gentlemen who had secretly allowed Slash to nip at his beer ever since he had been a little boy. 

Duff helped himself to another serving of eggs while Slash nibbled on a dry slice of toast.

"Yes, it is…very sad." Ms Brompton stood up. "It is in their genes, they say."

"Can I use the phone?" Slash asked. 

His father would know if something was wrong with the house. This was an emergency and for once he wouldn't let him get away with pretending that it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. In fact, he should have called him before getting on the plane to England; but the decision to come had been a fast one, squeezed into a tour schedule that was so tight it hadn't even occurred to him to talk to his parents first. 

It had been pure coincidence that the trip had been possible at all. Axl was coughing up a lung, they had had to take a break, they had already been in Europe, and on the spur of the moment, he had grabbed a bag and Duff and off they had been. If he was honest, getting away from Axl’s foul temper had been just as much of a reason as wanting to see the house. 

"The phone-line came down," Ms Brompton informed him. "And as we all know, British Telecom is not famous for their outstanding customer service.” 

"Maybe down in the village," Duff said. He pushed the plate away, stretched out his legs and contently folded his hands over his full belly. "We can buy cigarettes 'n' stuff at the shop. Look, it's clearing up outside, too. Didn't I say it's gonna be all fine?"

Slash looked out of the window. A few lonely sunbeams had found their way through the mist and cast a weak light onto the hills. The clouds, which had been dark and looming earlier, had been bleached white and although they were still thick and cotton-like, he could already make out first patches of blue sky between them. 

"The weather changes quickly," Ms Brompton said. "It can be dangerous, especially for tourists. City-people sometimes lose their way and get lost in the fog. It's tragic."

Her pity with those unlucky tourists seemed limited. Slash rather had the feeling that from Ms Brompton's point of view they only got what they deserved. 

"We can walk," Duff said and his legs twitched under the table. A day in the car, an early night, more sleep than he usually got in an entire week, Duff was as restless as a young dog that needed to work off its energy. 

Slash nodded, not because he needed exercise, but because there was no way they would drive across that bridge more often than absolutely necessary. Walking over it was already more than made him happy, but he would take the risk in order to get to a phone. Going out, however, seemed a good idea. Leaving this house, and be it only for an hour or two, would hopefully clear his mind. 

###

"I was born during a storm like this," Duff said as they sauntered down the narrow road towards the river. No, not a road. Only a driveway, really, a gravelled path where not too many tires had left their tracks. The van from the grocery shop once per week, the post-car maybe every other month. Everything had seemed bigger the evening before when the day had left them alone to a stormy night. 

"Lightnings and thunder and all that." Duff raised his nose heavenward, maybe to catch the earthy smell of spring that lay in the air. "You don't have that often in February. My grandma always said it was an omen. And now she keeps saying it’s no surprise I turned out the way I did. In this tone that lets you know she doesn’t mean it as a compliment, you know."

Slash ignored the sting Duff's off-hand remark left in his chest. 

'You were born on the first sunny day of the year.'

'It was the super bowl. The super bowl, son! Three days late, but then you couldn't even wait another twenty minutes.'

'We were still on the highway, stuck in the rush hour and your Mom was screaming that I thought we'd have you right there and then between all the cars.'

Unlike every other child, Slash didn't have a story about his birth.

'Nothing special,' his Mom had used to say when he had pressed her for details, hoping for an exciting story, something to match the adventures that rankled around his friend's births and gave them the resemblance of superheroes. 'You were born, isn't that enough?'

Slash's life didn't start with his birth, but with his first memory. A tiny boy, holding his grandmother's hand on the way to church, angrily kicking leaves with boots that had been bought not to fit but to grow into. 

Life was more than blood pumping through veins and lungs unfolding with the first breath. Life was a mother watching her newborn's peaceful sleep, a father holding his baby for the first time. Life was memory. 

Slash had none of that. Nobody had thought about keeping record for him before he had eventually been old enough to do it on his own; together with those memories the first years of his life had slipped away and were gone, lost not out of bad intention, but because they had never seemed important enough to keep them in a safe place. 

"Oh, wow," Duff said and stopped. “Looks like you were right with your premonitions.”

They wouldn't go down into the village, not today and not during the next days either. The river, grown torrent overnight, had washed the bank out around the pillars and turned the wooden bridge into an ugly insect, broken in halves, but still trying to limp away on cracked legs. 

"What are we doing now?" Slash picked up a stone and threw it at the wreck. He hit a pillar's splintered knee which poked upwards like a piece of bone out of an open fracture. 

"Swimming?" Duff giggled. "I guess they're gonna repair it." He frowned. "They _will_ repair it, right? I mean, it's not like there's nobody besides us using the bridge anymore so that they'll just forget we're here, right?"

Slash shivered and pulled his jacket closer around himself. He looked back, but couldn't make out the cottage, only the hill, that appeared less gloomy than the evening before. The blunt summit gleamed softly in the sunlight, green and gold with sprinkles of dark, peaty brown in between. 

"We should ask Ms Brompton," he said. "Maybe there's somebody she can call."

"There's no phone, remember?" Duff climbed down the banks and Slash followed slowly. Pebbles broke loose and rolled away as he grinded his heels into the ground, searching for hold on the wet slope. 

Duff was nimbler. His feet hardly touched the earth as he jumped and reached the waterline with only a couple of large steps. 

The water was almost black and just like the air it smelled of damp soil and spring. Slash watched it run and whirl downhill until he had to close his eyes to not become dizzy. But even then, behind his lids, he still saw the black twirl, a relentless, merciless maelstrom that made his heart ache. 

"What are you singing there?" Duff asked and only then did Slash notice that he had been humming softly under his breath. 

"I don't know." He frowned. Fragments of a song, a ragged melody, torn music and random notes, but nothing he could close his fist around. A voice singing them, sweet and female and gone before he had a chance to catch it.

"Sounds familiar." 

A couple of notes, hummed in Duff's voice, too deep to match, but still oddly complementing the wounded melody in Slash's head. 

"You know what that is?" he asked. 

Duff curled his lips into a gentle smile, as if the song had touched something deep inside him, and for a brief moment Slash wondered if maybe he had heard it sung by the same, sweet voice that ghosted through his own forlorn memories. 

"My grandma used to sing that. 'And the wild mountain thyme,'" he chanted off-key and laughed. "One of these shitty old songs, ya know."

"Yeah," Slash said, although he didn't know at all. 

His mother hadn't sung old songs to him, not even nursery rhymes. He had grown up with blues, with soul and jazz coming from her lips. Maybe Duff was able to put a name to the song, but that didn't make it any easier for Slash to recover the torn pieces from his memory and stitch them together. 

And why now? 

He never thought much about his childhood in England, everything that was important had happened in Los Angeles. He had been born in this country and yet he was a stranger; had chosen to be a stranger, had adapted to his new home and uprooted himself with vehemence from his old. But suddenly he felt them again, those tiny roots, thin as hairs, which thickened and strengthened now that they had tasted familiar soil. Unnoticed and forgotten they had grown again, had stretched and forced their tips into cracks and gaps to search for new hold. It was the smell of spring that had woken them, the feel of the air, the taste of the earth, and a long-forgotten melody. 

Duff quickly forgot about the song. He strolled up and down the waterline like a child looking for flotsam, picking up stones and twigs that had been washed up at the banks. In contrast to Duff's aimless activity, Slash stood still. His gaze wandered over the hills, the mist that clung in flimsy veils to a dip here and there while the sky, washed blue after the night's rain, left no doubt about the clarity of the upcoming day. He took a deep breath and for a moment he feared he might faint. 

"Look!" Duff called, shading his eyes with one hand against the sun. 

He looked out of place, Slash thought, his hair glowing pure and golden in the sun, his happiness matching the morning's splendour, while his tight, worn-out clothes and unnatural pallor spoke the language of his trade. A ragged, misplaced angel, conquering full of excitement a type of world that had never been meant to be his. 

"Hey, look, man!"

Torn out of his musings Slash followed Duff's outstretched arm and spotted a car on the other site of the bridge. Duff started to wave, jumping up and down like a castaway on a deserted island. 

The car, a red van, came to a crunching stop right at the point where once the road had mounted the bridge. A man, dressed in a blue working-overall, followed by a black and white dog, exited and solemnly inspected the damage. 

"We're stuck!" Duff yelled. "Is there another road or is this the only one?"

Slash skidded the last two steps downhill and joined Duff at the waterfront. He had looked exposed, standing there and waving, oblivious to the invisible threats that whistled in the wind and roared in the river. The feeling of danger looming over them wasn't as overwhelming as it had been in the house, but strong enough to assure him, that they couldn't be too careful. If Duff didn't understand it, then it was up to Slash to safeguard him. 

"You the Hudson Lad?" the man yelled back, his voice barely carrying over the water. The dog lifted his head and listened to a sound too far away to be heard, then he chased off a couple of yards, came back and was off again. 

"No, that's him!" Duff slapped Slash's back. "I'm Duff!"

The man nodded as if Duff had just confirmed an unpleasant suspicion. 

"Sorry, guys, but it's gonna take a bit until the bridge is repaired. Everything all right with the house? No damage?"

"I think we're fine," Duff replied. 

"Good to hear. You never know with the old building, that's why I came looking. If you need something, give us a ring."

"Phone's dead!" Duff announced cheerfully. "How long do you think?" He gestured at the bridge.

"A week," the man said. "Maybe longer. Depends on how much damage there is around. Underhill is the only house needing this bridge so it might take a bit. Do me a favour, lad, ask Ms Brompton to make a list about supplies you'll need for the next two weeks. Just to make sure. I'll come back around four this afternoon and tomorrow we'll get the stuff over to you in a boat."

"Gotcha!" Duff waved while the man whistled for his dog and returned to his car.

"He didn't mean that, did he?" Slash asked when they were alone again. 

"Mean what?" Duff climbed up the slope and Slash followed quickly, still feeling an urgency to not leave his back unprotected. 

"Two weeks. “We’ve got a gig. Several, to be precise. Axl's gonna kill us if we're not back next Sunday." Not only Axl, he didn’t even want to think about facing Izzy. Izzy, sober and in full possession of his wits, was not to be trifled with. 

"Then he's gotta send a helicopter or some shit," Duff replied, not at all worried by their predicament. "Come on, we've gotta make that list. I wonder if it's OK to ask for vodka." 

He stopped and sighed and when Slash caught up to him, Duff reached out and took his hand. Maybe Duff wasn't as oblivious to the danger around them as he seemed to be. 

"No, I know, it's not OK." He kicked a stone out of the way while a couple of tiny clouds darkened the brightness of his mood. "And I'll be good, so don't look at me like that."

Slash hadn't looked like that at all. He wouldn't have minded stocking up on alcohol himself; but even if he hadn't promised to cut back, he was paranoid enough without chemical enhancement. Sobriety it was, if he didn’t want to leave the house in a straightjacket. 

###

The sun grew stronger with each step they made and when they reached the cottage, even its grey walls had warmed up. Instead of going inside, Slash turned left and followed the narrow stone-path around the house and into the garden. 

Just like the interior, the garden had been left to itself. Daffodils and primroses blossomed in wild abundance, thick tufts of snowdrops grew under the trees, and the grass almost vanished under a carpet of tiny, blue flowers Slash didn't know the name of. 

A stone-bench was built into the wall that shielded the garden from the rough winds and when Slash sat down, he was surprised about the warmth that had been caught in the sheltered little corner. He blinked against the sun, closed his eyes and listened to the silence. When Duff perched himself right next to him, putting his head onto his shoulder, Slash smiled without opening his eyes. Moments of contentment, as rare as they were, had to be savoured to the last drop.

"We have to make that list," Duff whispered. "We need coffee and cigarettes. I mean, two weeks, dude, I can't drink tea for two weeks."

Slash didn't react. The sun felt too good on his face. 

"And when we've done that, we can have a look at the other rooms."

The warmth was driven right out of his bones. Slash opened his eyes and shrugged Duff's head off his shoulder.

"Why are you so keen on looking into the rooms?"

Duff sat up. "Why are you so reluctant to do it? I thought the reason we travelled about a million miles through wilderness was to have a look at this house, and now you avoid it with one stupid excuse after the other. Why is that, Slash?"

Slash fished his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one before he dropped the package into Duff's outstretched hand. 

There was no reason he could give. Was this the way archaeologists felt when they were about to open an old Egyptian tomb? Afraid of a curse waiting behind those doors that had been kept close for centuries, but still too intrigued to do the sensible thing and just leave it alone? 

"You're right," he said and flipped ash onto the ground. "We can do it now."

Duff nodded, but didn't stand up, willing to grant them a reprieve of a cigarette's length. 

"You haven't answered my question, you know." 

"It's strange," Slash replied, knowing that Duff would keep prodding with gentle insistence until he got an answer. "I have never met her and here I am, in her house, going through her stuff and looking into things that aren't my business."

"She left it to you. I think she wants you to have a look at her life."

"Still."

A slight nod of the head was all the acknowledgement he got; Slash knew that he hadn't bought the lie, but was merely willing to let go for now. Duff was good at playing harmless and oblivious, but he was a lot more perceptive than he liked to let on. 

He dropped the cigarette and grinded it with his heel into the wet earth. There wasn't a more elaborated answer he could give, not now, not while the house was watching them. It was alive, Slash was sure of that. Something lived within the skeleton of its walls, something that reached out for him and clawed for his heart with bony fingers. Duff couldn't feel it. To him the house was just a house, stone on stone with mortar in between, glass for windows and a roof covered with tiles. He did not feel its breathing, its barely noticeable movements when it followed every step they made and watched them from hollow, curtained eyes. 

A sudden cracking in the unkempt shrubbery made Slash whip around. Duff followed his turn more slowly and while Slash still fought for breath, a slow smile spread over Duff's face. 

"Come here, kitty," he cooed and stretched out a hand towards the big tabby cat that eyed the intruders full of suspicion. Even the cat treated them with hostility, but a cat was probably entitled to insist on its sovereign rights. 

Duff's courtship was met with success. The cat approached him with reluctance, but when he buried his fingers in the thick fur at her neck, she rounded her back and pressed herself against his leg, her tail raised like a straight, slightly swaying antenna. Slash couldn't help wishing it was his neck bending under Duff's fingers. 

"We can go now, if you like," he said. Better to do it in broad daylight, when there was a bit of warmth left in his flesh, warmth that the house would suck out of him as soon as the sun set behind the hill. 

Duff looked up from the cat, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He straightened and extinguished the butt on the bench, but didn't make moves to stand up. The cat rubbed herself against his leg, expressing a need for attention and caresses which Slash only knew too well but never dared show. Not to Duff at least, but cats were probably privileged that way, too. 

"You know…" Duff took Slash's face into both hands, "… you're the reason I'm here, not the house." He kissed him and before he had a chance to let go again, Slash caught two fists full of blond hair and held him in place for another couple of seconds. He was rewarded with gentle, Duff-like sounds, the type of which he very rarely made during sex, but uttered sometimes if they bothered with more than just two minutes of foreplay; softly crooned notes that for once spoke more of tenderness than basic needs. 

It was only when he let Duff go again, that he noticed a curtain being shifted behind one of the windows. He peered up, but couldn't make out a face and couldn't help wondering whether it was Ms Brompton or maybe the house itself spying on them; if there was a difference at all between Ms Brompton and the house. 

"Let's go inside," Duff said and stood up. 

The cat gave up her cause and vanished in the shrubbery she had come from, returning to whatever business had occupied her before she had discovered the strangers in her realm. For a moment Slash was tempted to just follow her, but instead he yielded to the tucking at his sleeve and followed Duff back into the grey, stone-built tomb of forgotten memories.


	4. It's in the Genes

**It’s in the Genes**

"The bridge?" 

They had found Ms Brompton in the office, a large, sunny room on the first floor, where she had been busy doing paperwork at a baroque-style hardwood-desk. Upon their arrival she had capped her fountain pen and placed it carefully back into the silver penholder. 

"We've got to make a list of stuff we need," Duff said. "And we need coffee and cigarettes."

Ms Brompton ignored him. 

"It's not the first time," she said and Slash shivered under her gaze. "It happened before. A child was killed and the mother.... It was a tragedy." For once she seemed genuinely upset. 

"I don't think somebody was hurt. I bet it happened during the night," Slash replied, not wanting to think about tragedies. There was already enough death inside this house without adding additional demise.

"Probably." She put a sheet of blotting paper over the entries she had just made and closed the ledger with a thud. "I'm sure you want to have a look at the accounting, Mr Hudson, don't you? Most of the land is rented to Mr Flaggins, so I suppose you should have a word with him before you make any decisions. If you're ready to busy yourself with the estate's finances, let me know and I'll be happy to provide you with whatever you need. During the last years Miss Hudson's ability to take care of her finances was … reduced, so it became more and more my responsibility. Just like everything else."

"Thanks." Slash stared numbly at the neat rows of binders which occupied the shelves behind her. He hadn't thought about accounting. Dealing with the band's finances was already more than he could manage. And what about Ms Brompton herself? She surely received a salary, too and it was probably time to ask her about it. If he sold the house, would he have to lay her off first? Or could he just hand her over with the keys to the new owner? 

"I suggest you occupy yourself first with the last five years." She gestured at the shelves behind herself. "I'm in the kitchen if you need me. I'm going to check our supplies."

"Coffee and cigarettes," Duff called after her, but she didn't even turn around, just closed the door behind herself and was gone. 

Slash picked up the binder that lay closest to him on the desk and studied the spine. 'Insurances' was written in block-letters on the label. 

"You're not going to look at figures now, are you?" Duff asked. "I mean…"

"It's OK." Slash put the binder back onto the table. "Let's have a look." 

They had already seen most of the ground-floor, the living-room, the kitchen and a couple of smaller rooms that were used for storage and the building’s services. The office was on the first floor, located directly next to the master bedroom where they had spent the night. 

"Let's just start here." Duff headed out of the room and simply opened the door on the other side of the corridor. 

"Bedroom," Slash said. Another one, which wasn't a surprise in such a big house. 

Duff closed the door and purposefully tackled the next one. They found three more bedrooms, but all beds were barren, the mattresses removed and the rooms almost naked. The chintz, the pillows and carpets the other rooms were stuffed with were missing, an indication that Aunt Cecile hadn't hosted guests in a while. 

Ms Brompton's room, at the far end of the corridor, was, much to Duff's disappointment, locked. 

"Heh, when she goes out, do you think we can pick the lock?" he asked. Mischief sparkled in his eyes and Slash knew that his fingers were already itching. Duff’s criminal abilities had more than once come in handy during the band’s early days. 

"I don't think it's a good idea," he replied, unwilling to even think about what Ms Brompton would do if she found out they had been breaking into her room. “And where would she be going with the bridge broken? Unless she’s flying on a broom.” It wasn’t entirely impossible, Slash had to admit. 

"You're afraid of her," Duff sang and Slash heard laughter bubble behind his words. 

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are." Duff winked. "But don't worry, I won't tell anybody."

Slash let it slip. Duff would never understand that Ms Brompton wasn't simply an old, misanthropic house-keeper, and as he had no words to explain his conviction that she was part of the danger the house emitted, he could just as well spare himself the trouble. 

Duff marched on and right into a large bathroom. Slash followed suit. Their own bedroom was equipped with a little en suite bathroom, a shower, a sink and a toilet, all rather new and modern, with a dozen switches that had to be switched and buttons that had to be pushed before something similar to hot water spilled out of the shower. This one was different.

The carpet on the floor had once been thick and plush, but in most places, it was worn down and had lost its colour. A large tub dominated the room, the porcelain chipped and cracked, the fixtures blind and tarnished. Duff padded over to the sink and stared into the dim mirror. Slash joined him and looked at his contorted picture. It was almost as if another person was staring back at him. A crack ran down from between his eyes to his mouth and a thin veil seemed to lie between them. He felt a sudden urge to polish the mirror until the image cleared, but he knew it was useless. It wasn't dust, but time that lay between himself and his reflection and no amount of cleaning would change that. 

"If you keep the house, you have to replace this," Duff said, and for the first time he seemed to experience a trace of the unease Slash had been feeling ever since they had crossed the bridge. Goose bumps had risen on Duff’s naked arms and when he abruptly shook his head he seemed to try and get rid of something unpleasant crawling over his skin.

He turned one of the two separate tabs at the sink. It creaked, but remained dry. He tried his luck with the other one, but didn't have any more success. "Looks like it's out of use."

"Let's go upstairs," Slash said, not telling Duff that he would sell the house as fast as possible. As soon as the bridge was repaired, they would pack their things and be gone and to hell with Ms Brompton or Mr Flaggins or even the cat. "There's nothing interesting here." 

Duff was quick to comply. He didn’t seem to be fond of the bathroom either. 

The stairs to the top-floor creaked with each step. Whoever had been in their room the night before must have been hiding in one of the adjacent rooms. There was no way that he could have escaped upstairs or downstairs without making any noise. 

The upper floor was more interesting. There was a library, the windows facing the garden and providing a view down to the river that parted the dale into two halves. 

"She liked books, didn't she?" Duff asked and picked random volumes from the shelves. 

"I don't think there are any with pictures." It was a late vengeance, but it bugged him that Duff had spotted his trepidation around Ms Brompton.

"Yes, there are," Duff replied, not willing to react to the tease. "Here." He held up a large children-book. "Peter Rabbit. Want me to read it to you tonight?"

Slash cast him a dark look. 

"I would do so, you know." Duff snickered. "While you're drinking your cocoa and before lights out." 

"This isn't funny," he hissed, which caused Duff to frown in puzzlement. "Put the fucking book back."

"Jesus, Slash, you're edgy. It's just a children's book. It's not the Necronomicon or something." He opened it and started to read. "Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter."

"I know," Slash growled. "I had it at home. And now put it back." 

His Mom had read it to him when he was little. No, not his Mom; probably his grandma, when he was still in England, but he couldn't say for sure. Another thing he hadn't thought about in years, but he could still hear the words as a soft whisper in his ears. 'But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries, for supper.'

Slash shook his head to shoo the voice away. 

"Ups, there's a loose page." Duff picked up a piece of paper that had fallen out of the book. "Uh, no, that doesn't belong in here." He turned it around. "Ts ts ts," he made and shook his head in mock disapproval. "Now, who would tear pages out of the Bible, huh? Look, she's even marked a paragraph. 'So they took up Jonah, and cast him forth into the sea; and the sea ceased from its raging.'" He put the sheet back into the book and placed it onto the shelf. "Books are boring. Let's go on."

There were a couple more rooms, most of them full of clutter, old furniture, boxes that raised clouds of dust when they were opened, and contained all the useless junk most people with too much room and too little self-discipline assembled over a lifetime. 

"Do you know what's strange?" Duff asked while they snooped through Aunt Cecile's boxed life. "There are no photos. If you'd look through any of my old aunts' shit, there would be photos everywhere. They dig them out each time you visit them, really." He closed another door behind himself and moved on to the last one at the end of the corridor. "Oh, look a this, Duff," he chirped in a squeaky old-lady-voice, "your cousin Patrick at his first holy communion. And here, Mary-Anne as a girl-scout, isn't she pretty." He turned the door-knob and fell silent.

"Locked?" Slash asked. 

"Yes." Duff rattled, but the door wouldn't give. It was different from the other doors, too, heavier, with ornaments carved into oak and black metal-fittings. "Maybe Ms Brompton has the key. I'll go down and ask her, you wait here, OK?"

Slash nodded. He couldn't take his eyes off the door. Duff jumped down the stairs, not even trying to be silent and was back only two minutes later. 

"She's gone. To the bridge, I guess, with the list. I hope she thought about the coffee and the cigarettes. We can ask when she's back."

"It's not important," Slash replied. "Probably just more clutter." 

He wasn't disappointed that Duff hadn't gotten the key and when Duff rattled the knob again, Slash took his arm and pulled him away. 

"Give it up." 

He cast a last look at the door that loomed dark and sturdy at the end of the corridor. It was in there. Whatever secret this house tried to keep, it was behind that door. There was a reason it was locked and if they were lucky, the key had been lost for good and the door would remain untouched until the house crumbled and buried its secret under a heap of rotting wood and stones. 

###

For the rest of the afternoon Slash did his best to avoid Ms Brompton. Duff had plugged his ears with headphones, dedicating himself to damaging his hearing, and so Slash was at a loss at what to do with himself. Without thinking he returned to the garden, hoping that just being outside the house would help to free his lungs from decades of dust and misery. He spotted the cat sneaking through the neglected flowerbeds, but this time she was too busy with her own affairs to pay attention to his coaxing. 

Slash strolled along the grassy paths. He found tiny nooks hidden between bushes, a weathered bench under a knobbly tree but with each step and look the restless feeling in his limbs grew. It was different from Duff's overflowing energy and he was sure that not even hiking the hills for the rest of the week would put it to sleep. It was a disquietude that stuck in his bones and urged him to run in circles like an ant that had lost its trail. 

The weather was just as treacherous as the cottage and when the first drops fell, Slash went inside, feeling like an animal that returned into captivity for the lack of better options. Instinctively he headed for the kitchen, where the smell of food and the burning fire feigned a resemblance of life, but hearing Ms Brompton clutter around was enough to make him back off. 

He sneaked upstairs instead and before he knew where he was going, he found himself in the library. Books had never held much fascination for him and words weren't a match for rhythms and melodies, but he nevertheless closed the door behind himself and sat down in the easy chair below the huge window. 

The sheer mass of books made him shiver. Inanimate things had a tendency to become alive at Underhill Cottage. He didn't need any more stories waking up around him, the house and its whispering was enough. 

Slash looked out of the window, away from the shelved lives and tales, hoping they would stay where they were and leave him alone. 

His gaze followed the oddly familiar line of hills that ducked down into the dale while the wind chased clouds over their summits. The sky turned black one moment only to be torn open by a blinding ray of sunshine the next. Veils of mist and spray spread over the moors, then where whipped away at a whim, while the few, lonely trees bowed and groaned under the assault of the wind. Slash couldn't make out the river, but he knew it was there, black and mighty after all the rain.

Up here the hills were untouched, covered with fern and heather, but the further they pushed down into the valley, the more the human touch became visible. Stone-walls parted them into sheep-dotted rectangles, a farm-house here and there, all built out of the same grey stones, braved not only the weather, but also the course of time. Humans, if he could make them out at all, were as much a part of the countryside as the hills, the river and the sheep. Grey as the stone and sturdy as the storm-beaten trees they grew out of the earth and would one day return to it, their blood and bones made out of the same material as the land. 

Slash couldn't say for how long he had been sitting there and it was only when Duff switched on the light that he noticed how dark it had become. 

"Aren't you hungry?" Duff asked, softly and also a little worried. 

"Not really." Slash tried a smile, more to reassure Duff than himself. He laid his palm against the window and watched how raindrops chased each other down the glass. 

"It's chilly here." Duff rubbed his naked arms and Slash wondered how he managed to store the heat in his wiry body. "You coming?"

Slash nodded, not because he was keen on having dinner, but to stop Duff from looking at him like that; like he wondered whether he had to put down his favourite pet. 

The kitchen was warm; it seemed to be the only place in the entire house that was not subjected to the dampness the walls had soaked up over the centuries. 

"You did remember to ask for coffee and cigarettes, didn't you, Ms Brompton?" Duff asked even before they had sat down at the kitchen table. 

"Yes," she said after an eternity of silence and when Duff rewarded her with a dazzling smile, Slash noticed a hair-thin crack in her stony façade. Sooner or later everybody succumbed to Duff's charms. 

"I bet you've been living here for an awful long time, haven't you?" he went on and attacked the sausage on his plate. “What was it like?” 

The idea to make chit-chat-conversation with Ms Brompton had never even crossed Slash's mind, and he couldn't help but admire Duff's audacity to tackle the lioness in her own den. 

"It was 1969 when I moved in," she said and the almost friendly tone caused Slash to nearly drop his fork into the mashed potatoes. "When it became evident that Miss Hudson wouldn't be able anymore to cope on her own."

It was something Slash hadn't considered so far; that Ms Brompton wasn't only a part of the house, but that she had a life, a history of her own, no matter how entwined it was with the history of Underhill Cottage. He also realized that to her their arrival had to be a threat. The unknown heir from the U.S., who didn't have any interest in the house or its inhabitants. No matter which decision he made, it would indivertibly affect Ms Brompton's life. 

"She was already pretty old I bet," Duff ploughed on. "Slash's aunt, I mean."

"In her late forties. She was only 67 when she died. Cancer."

"That's sad." Duff chewed quietly for a while. "Do you have a key for the locked door upstairs?"

Slash frowned. If he had hoped that Duff would give up on the door, then he should have known better.

"Which door?" 

Her eyes twitched and Slash was convinced that she knew exactly which door they were talking about. 

"The heavy one," Duff replied. "Upper floor, at the end of the corridor. It's locked."

When it came to locked doors, Duff behaved just like a nosy cat. He wasn't content before he had managed to slip through and he didn't care whether somebody stepped onto his paw or caught his tail between door and frame. 

"There isn't a key," Ms Brompton said. The crack in her hostility was gone and they were treated once more to the old, impenetrable stone-façade.

"Oh, OK." Duff chased peas over his plate and cornered them between two baby-carrots. "It won't be too difficult to break it open."

Slash almost suffocated at the breath that caught in his throat. If they hurt the house, the house would strike back, even Duff should be able to realize that. 

"I wouldn't do that," Ms Brompton said and Slash nodded vigorously. For once he wholeheartedly agreed with her. "The door is antique, opening it by force would diminish its value considerably. You should ask a qualified locksmith to do it."

"What is in the room?" Duff mashed his peas into the potatoes. His eating habits were not for those faint of heart. 

"I have no idea." Ms Brompton stood up and collected the bowls off the table. 

Duff quickly stabbed his fork at another sausage and dragged it home before she had the chance to pull the plate away.

"It has always been locked?"

Slash kicked Duff under the table. 

"Who cares?" he hissed, but Duff only raised his eyebrows in faint puzzlement. 

"At least for as long as I have been here," Ms Brompton replied. 

If Slash interpreted her voice correctly, she thought she had said the last word in this matter. She had still to learn that it was easier to snatch a bone away from a pit bull than distracting Duff from something that had piqued his interest. There was a way to divert his attention, but it was unlikely that Ms Brompton would resort to that method. And even then, it was possible that Duff would utter a contorted 'I wonder what's behind that door' between moans and groans. 

"Why does somebody buy an expensive door and then use it for a room that nobody needs?"

Ms Brompton faced Duff with a stern, schoolteacher-like look, but he only blinked back with an innocence that Slash knew was faked, but which everybody fell for again and again nevertheless. 

"There is a story about that door," she eventually provided. "It once belonged to a monastery, about sixty miles from here, at the other end of the dale. A young woman, her name was Elaine, had been ordered to marry a wealthy nobleman she despised. To escape her fate, she sought out shelter with the nuns, but the man violated the sacred place and stormed the monastery. Elaine fled up the staircase that led to the top of one of the buildings, the lord’s sentries close on her heels. With barely a step ahead she reached a small room in the tower, closed the door behind herself and turned the key."

"Rapunzel!" Duff exclaimed, but fell silent when Ms Brompton punished him with one of her less friendly looks.

"She locked that door…," she pointed towards the ceiling, "…behind her. The sentries tried to break through by force, but the door wouldn't yield. Eventually they had to give up and return home."

"And everybody lived happily ever after," Duff finished for her, but Ms Brompton shook her head. 

"After the men had left, the nuns knocked at the door and asked the girl to open. She turned the key, but nothing happened. The door remained closed. All efforts to break it and free Elaine remained fruitless. It took a hundred years until one of the nuns woke up one morning to find the key lying next to her bed on her bible. When she opened the door, Elaine was sitting in an armchair by the window, a baby in her arms. Or maybe I should say, what was left of her and her child. The bones are buried on the graveyard next to the monastery. You can go and visit it if you like to."

"Did they just let her starve?" Duff asked exasperated. "And didn't the baby cry? I mean, it's not like you can miss it if there's a baby in the house. Believe me, I know. Or was it stillborn?"

Slash rolled his eyes. Trust Duff to go right through to the practical problems.

"I guess they could send up a basket with food n' stuff. Up to the window, you know. But I don't think she had much fun. At least not after she locked that freaking door behind herself Heh, at least before she's gotten her share, hasn't she?"

"It's a fairy-tale, Duff," Slash said. 

"Yeah, I know." Duff frowned. "Doesn't mean they couldn't try to make it a little more believable, right? And anyway, why is that door now here and no longer in the monastery?"

"The monastery was razed." Ms Brompton took their empty plates and loaded the dishwasher. "It was destroyed during the dissolution of the monasteries in the 16th century. I'm sure you're familiar with this part of English history, aren't you?"

"Sure," Duff deadpanned. 

Ms Brompton made a sound that was almost a snort. "Then I won't elaborate on it for you. Suffice to say, the door was preserved and kept over centuries in the nearby castle. The family ran into financial problems and sold it to the previous owner of Underhill Cottage. That was about fifty years ago. I don't know when or why the key was misplaced. Suffice to say, the door is locked."

Slash looked away. It was only a fairy-tale, a stupid story to frighten little children. He had heard far scarier stories and if he added his experience with horror-movies, the story of a girl locked into a tower shouldn't even make him blink an eye. It still sent chills down his spine. He had lost his ability to distinguish between truth and invention. Instead he had entered a world where everything was possible, and where a fairy tale was sometimes more than just a fairy tale. If anybody cared for his opinion, he would tell them to keep the door closed for another hundred years. 

###

The next night didn’t pass peacefully either,

Slash sat up straight and strained his ears against the silence. There. Again. It was so low that he almost missed it, but it was there, unmistakably. 

"What's wrong?" Duff mumbled, not really awake. 

Sheets rustled and then naked skin brushed against his as Duff sat up, too. 

"Don't you hear that?" he whispered breathlessly. 

"Hear what?" Duff's voice, clogged with sleep, turned petulant. "Slash, there isn't anything."

"There's a baby crying."

The darkness was almost palpable and dimmed the sounds down like cotton-wool, but they were still clear enough.

"A … what?" The disbelief in Duff's voice grew in the same levels as his coming awake. "Was probably a cat." 

Hair tickled his neck when Duff's head found a rest on his shoulder. 

"There. Don't you hear it? That's no cat." 

When Slash scrambled out of bed and switched on the light, Duff simply flopped backwards and lay sprawled over the whole mattress. 

"There's nothing," he said impatiently. "Maybe the wind…."

"It's a baby, for fuck's sake," Slash hissed. "And if you shut up for a moment, I might find out where it's coming from."

Duff groaned and the bed creaked as he rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head. Slash ignored him. Quickly he put on a pair of sweatpants and then stood still to listen. The crying, louder now, came from the upper floor. He slipped out of the room and closed the door behind himself.

"Slash, for fuck's sake, where're you going?" Duff shouted after him, but Slash didn't care. He knew what he was hearing and it was neither a cat nor the wind. 

The corridor was long and, except for the pale light the moon cast through the windows, completely dark. Whenever a cloud passed, the weak illumination diminished further, but Slash didn't switch on the ceiling lamp. Whatever it was that haunted this house, this time he wouldn't shoo it away. 

Carefully placing his feet, he sneaked along the corridor towards the staircase. He did his best to avoid the gnarls and creaks of the steps, but no matter how much he curled his toes against the wood, the staircase groaned like a thousand-year-old tree under the burden of its age. 

When he reached the upper floor, it became evident where the crying was coming from. As if he hadn't known right from the beginning. The door loomed black and menacing at the end of the corridor. Slash walked on, but although each step took more energy than the previous one, he became slower and slower until he faltered completely. A second voice mingled with the baby's crying; a woman. She was singing. Her voice, soft and light as gauze, fluttered through the air; a lonely moth tumbling around a burning candle.

He knew that voice. It was the same voice his memory had unearthed in the morning, down at the river; the same voice and the same song. 

Slash swallowed. The air was chilly, but although he was dressed only in a pair of sweatpants, sweat still broke out all over his skin. He clenched his fists and made another step. A cloud passed the moon and for a moment the corridor sank into darkness, the door at its end turning into a gaping black hole. 

Slash felt his heart beat up in his throat. His knees trembled when he forced himself to make another step, and another, dragging himself forward when all he wanted was go back to his room, crawl under the blanket and let Duff's warmth and confidence comfort him. 

He stopped when all he had left to do was reaching out to touch the door. The crying had stopped, but the woman's voice was still there, still singing the song which was at the same time so familiar and completely alien. 

Slash closed his eyes and stretched a hand out towards the door-knob. His fingers brushed against metal. It was so cold, it almost burned his skin, but he still closed his hand around the handle and turned. 

"It's locked, man!"

Slash jumped and nearly screamed when a flush of light from the ceiling-lamp hit his eyes. 

"Fuck," he snarled and it cost him all of his self-control to not hit Duff straight into his face. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"I didn't sneak," Duff snapped, wrapping his arms around himself against the chill. His state of undressing matched Slash's and he fidgeted to keep his naked feet off the floor. "I called your name at least half a dozen times, but you were like in trance, dude."

"But…" Slash turned towards the door. The singing had stopped and all that transmitted through the oak was silence. "There was a woman singing," he started, gesturing towards the door, but one look into Duff's face assured him that it was the wrong thing to say. 

"Come," Duff said and took Slash's arm. "I think we've got to talk."

"Duff, I swear, there was…"

"Yes, I know, there was a baby crying and a woman singing." 

Duff pulled him into the library. He switched on the light and closed the door behind them.

"I thought we had an agreement." 

For a moment Slash stood bewildered. It was rarely that he encountered this version of Duff: resolute and very annoyed. Arms crossed in front of his chest he leant against the door and fixed him with cool determination. Slash sobered instantly. Dealing with Duff when he was in such a mood could turn out very unpleasant.

"What do you mean?"

"Whom are you trying to fool here?" Duff asked back. "Me or yourself? We have all made this decision together. That we give up on the heavy stuff."

Slash's uneasiness grew. If Duff turned against him, then whom should he hold on to?

"Are you suggesting that I'm secretly shooting up?" he challenged, but Duff didn't waver for a second.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm suggesting." 

Slash wanted to hit him. How could he stand there and accuse him of breaking the agreement when he hadn't even gotten drunk in days? 

"Yeah, fuck, then you're wrong," he replied, unable to bring up the fury this assumption deserved. If he was honest, he could even understand the logic behind Duff's thinking. Madness or drugs were the only feasible explanations for the events of the last days, and Duff had chosen the most likely one. "Because I'm not doing it."

Duff rolled his eyes. "Crying babies, singing women, people sneaking through our room. You're fucking paranoid, man."

"I'm not hallucinating," Slash said firmly when in fact he wasn't so sure. "You've got to believe me!"

Duff looked away and Slash knew the answer in advance.

"I don't." 

"You can search my stuff if you want to." 

Duff fixed him again. "What for? First, we're all experts in hiding our stash and second, I'm not your fucking Mom. You either stop or you don't, that's entirely your decision, but don't fucking lie to me."

"I'm not lying." Slash hugged himself. Maybe he should try harder to make Duff understand, but there was nothing he could bring up in his defence; nothing except admitting to the fear that had been plaguing him ever since he had set a foot into this house. "What if I'm losing my mind?"

Duff studied the floor.

"I swear," he added quietly. "I'm not on drugs. I've never been this sober in my entire life. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I'm insane and the drugs were masking it."

Slash searched Duff's face for a flicker of understanding and when he looked up, his eyes had softened. Slash still wasn't sure that he had convinced him.

"You heard what Ms Brompton said. It's in the genes. Maybe I'm starting early."

"Bullshit." Duff shook his head with a harsh snort. "You are insane, but not that way." He made a step away from the wall and stretched out his hand. "Come on, we go back to bed."

"You still don't believe me, do you?"

Duff sighed. "Ask me again tomorrow," he said. "At the moment I don't know what to believe."

"Me neither," Slash replied.

No, Duff didn't believe him, but for the moment being forgiven for something he hadn't even done was enough. When Duff put an arm around his shoulder, he pressed himself against his side and followed without protest. 

When they walked down the corridor, the whispers flared up again. Slash shivered. He wouldn't listen to the voices anymore. If Duff didn't hear them, then they were only in his head. There were ways to treat diseases like that. Drugs, therapies, he would do whatever necessary to get rid of them. And if all that didn't help, then he would simply pretend that they didn't exist and never mention them again. 

"You cold, huh?" Duff asked and hugged him a little closer while they stumbled down the stairs. "No wonder, dude, running around in this chilly air with no clothes on."

Slash didn't answer. He just allowed Duff to tuck him into bed like a child, trying to convince himself that he didn't hear the woman whisper into his ear, clear and familiar, like something he had heard a million times before. 

'He found a door in a wall, but it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath.'


	5. The Hudson Lad

**The Hudson Lad**

Slash didn't fall asleep until the wee morning hours. The voice had fallen silent ages ago, but for once Duff's warmth and regular heartbeat wasn't enough to lull him to sleep. While his body was frozen, his mind was restless. It wandered through the house like a ghost and Slash couldn't stop it from returning again and again to the locked door. 

A crying baby. 

Slash lay awake for hours, unmoving and listening to Duff's breathing. He didn't believe in ghosts, never had, but if he wasn't losing his mind, then something supernatural was going on at this place. Maybe there was something unusual running in the family, not madness, but a sense for things that lay outside of most people's perception, like Uncle Henry and his Christmas-ghost. Maybe he wasn't as crazy as everybody believed and maybe the jokes made about him whenever two members of the family met were not justified. 

When somebody went mad, did they notice that thy were losing their mind? Or was it just like he was feeling now, confused, but otherwise normal? Would there be a moment when he just knew that it was time to move into a padded cell or would he simply go on, talking about weird things nobody understood until he slowly slipped into a world that only existed in his head? 

Was this how Axl was feeling when he was talking about stuff that might make sense to him, but nobody else? Who determined what was really there and what was a product of an insane mind? 

And why seemed this place so familiar? His parents had never mentioned any visits to Underhill Cottage, but then, they never talked much about the early years of his childhood at all. Or was he reliving memories from another life? The thought made him shiver. Just like ghosts, reincarnation wasn't part of his beliefs. 

The first sunrays had already found their way through the drawn curtains when Slash was eventually able to put his mind to rest. He fell asleep with Duff's chest under his cheek and Duff's belly under his hand, warm skin, smooth and healthy in a place that hadn't seen youth and life in decades. Maybe that was the reason why the house couldn't touch Duff. He was the antonym to everything it stood for and his vital force protected him like a shield wherever he went. And maybe, Slash thought, if he just crawled a little nearer, wrapped himself a little more firmly around Duff's body, he would be able to slip under his shield. 

When Slash awoke the next morning, it took him a while to notice that something was wrong. He hadn't moved, was still lying in the same position, with his head on Duff's chest, but something was different. An unpleasant smell lingered in the room, like a dead animal was rotting in a hidden corner. The skin under his hand was cold. He curled his fingers into Duff's flesh and it just fell from his bones. 

Screaming Slash scrambled away and stared down at what had once been his friend, his brother, his lover and what had turned overnight into a half-rotten corpse. Empty holes where there once had been eyes, a frozen, lipless grin and cheeks that were covered with crumpled parchment. 

Slash screamed and screamed until somebody grabbed him and shook him and when he opened his eyes, Duff's face was back and his eyes were open and his mouth formed words he didn't understand. 

"Calm down," Duff said and Slash hung on his lips as if manna was dripping from them. 

"Nightmare," Slash gasped. "Was just a nightmare."

Duff hugged him and Slash buried his head at his chest, which was warm and alive and hosted a beating heart. 

"You're really a mess." Duff rocked him and stroked his hair and Slash just let him, wishing they could stay like this forever. "What do I do with you, huh?" 

"Just what you're doing right now," he mumbled and Duff chuckled and started to rub his neck and his shoulders.

"But only for a couple more minutes, then we go down and have breakfast. And then we go to the river and hopefully we'll get coffee and cigarettes."

"Couple of minutes is OK." Slash inhaled and although Duff urgently needed a shower, it was just what he needed to get the rotten smell out of his nose. 

"What were you dreaming about anyway?" 

"You were dead." Slash shuddered. Yes, it was only a dream, but the sight of Duff's decaying body had burned itself so deep into his brain that he wasn't sure he would ever be able to forget it. 

"Aw, and that made you so upset? That's really sweet of you."

"Sure, it does." He freed himself out of Duff's embrace and sat up. "That's normal, right? You're my friend."

Duff cocked his head. "You're blushing."

"I'm not." 

Heat prickled his cheeks and Duff laughed. 

"You need a shower," Slash said annoyed. "You're reeking."

"Yes, I do. And you know what?" Duff smirked. "You're coming with me and we're having shower-sex. I swear, dude, I'm going to fuck you until you relax and we can have just one night of peaceful sleep."

"If we get that thing going," Slash muttered, but when Duff took his hand and pulled him off the bed, he followed obediently into the little bathroom. 

"OK." Duff stalled in front of the shower. "How did this shit work?"

"First pull." Slash pulled the line hanging from the ceiling and waited for the red lamp at its other end to glow. 

"Boost, we've forgotten the boost," Duff returned to the bedroom to switch it on. "I swear, whoever invented this had issues with running water," he muttered upon his return. "OK, what did she say?" He climbed into the shower and stared at the fixtures, a big white box with several switches that had to be set to … whatever. Hopefully Duff remembered. "Turn this one on 2 and then this…"

Water spilled out of the showerhead.

"Hot?" Slash asked and Duff grinned. 

"Yep, come in." He hooked the showerhead into its holding. 

Slash closed the curtain behind them. The water jet was warm, but thin, and to get at least some of it, wrapping his arms around Duff and pressing himself against him was the only solution.

"I'll be damned if I don't manage to fix you," Duff mumbled and Slash was more than willing to let him try. There was nothing he wouldn't do if it just helped him survive the next days, and what Duff suggested was far from a hardship. 

###

"Coffee!" Duff exclaimed when they went down for breakfast. 

The counters were packed full of cans and boxes and Slash wondered for how many weeks of isolation Ms Brompton was stocking up. Duff grabbed the glass of instant coffee and hugged it to his chest.

"Coffee, coffee, coffee," he sang and filled the electric kettle without letting go of his prize. 

Slash wiped wet hair back and ducked his head, hoping she would attribute the flush on his cheeks to the shower. Who was he kidding? Duff glowed with satisfaction and if it had been her witnessing them kissing in the garden the day before, then she knew that a cup of coffee wasn't the only reason for his overbearing behaviour. 

He tried not to think too much about the noises he had made when Duff had bitten his nipples or sucked his dick. And then there had been that moment when he had raked his teeth from his neck all the way down over his spine, had licked through the crack of his ass, further down his thighs to the back of his knees, and all the way up again. 

They had finished with Slash pressed face forward against the wall, one leg hooked over Duff’s arm, his dick so deep inside him, it should have kept him up even if he had slipped. 

Duff really had made good on his promise. After fucking him, he had washed him from head to toe. It had been horribly embarrassing, but when Duff was in serious caring mode, all one could do was give up and surrender. Slash had complied with whatever he had thought necessary, and if he was honest, it had taken his mind off the night’s latest events. Eventually the water had run cold or they might have spent the whole day in the shower. 

"Mr Sowersby was here this morning and brought the supplies," Ms Brompton said and chucked a couple of eggs into the pan. 

"He's already gone?" Slash was disappointed. He had thought about packing his stuff and leaving with the boat. They could have stayed in the pub until the bridge was repaired or even simply left the car and just returned to the band. 

"Of course. He is a hard-working man." Fat sizzled when Ms Brompton shifted the eggs. "Not everybody is sleeping until noon."

"Comes with the job, you know. We always have to work late, so we sleep late, too." Duff poured boiling water into a mug and inhaled coffee-vapours. "Gods, I've been missing this."

"It's been only two days," Slash said and took plates out of the cupboard. 

The look on Ms Brompton's face convinced him that opening the cupboards was not considered help, but an invasion. Nevertheless, he pulled out the cutlery-drawer and took out spoons, knives and forks. This was his house. Not only the walls, the floor and the ceiling, but also the interior, the furniture, the pots, the pans, the plates, cups and glasses, and he was fed up with being treated like an intruder. He snatched a box of cornflakes from the counter and took the milk out of the fridge. Duff, on the other hand, didn't care for food; he cradled his cup as if it contained fifty-year-old Scotch. 

"You don't want any?" he asked when Slash hung a tea-bag into his cup.

"I don't mind tea," he replied. 

"Did you have difficulties sleeping again?" Ms Brompton asked and shifted the eggs onto plates. "I think I heard somebody walking around the house tonight."

"That was Slash," Duff said. "Well, me too, but mainly Slash."

"Hearing people again?"

Slash frowned at the trace of sarcasm in her voice. It wasn't enough to call her out on it, but strong enough to be sure he wasn't imagining it. 

"He was just having a nightmare," Duff explained.

Slash glared at him. Whose business was it if he had nightmares or heard voices? The last thing he needed was Duff discussing his growing insanity with Ms Brompton. 

"Ah." She started to put the groceries away and Slash hoped she had lost interest in his madness. He had been too optimistic. "You should go for a walk," she said. "There isn't much to do for you in this house, and getting some exercise might help you sleep better." 

"You know," Duff pulled the first plate with eggs towards himself, "that's pretty much what I said this morning. Tiring him out."

Ms Brompton made a strange noise, and Slash gave up all hope that she was oblivious to what had been going on in the shower. Duff and discretion were two things that simply didn't go together. 

"You can just follow the footpath behind the house," she said. "After about a mile you will come across a little stream and you can just follow it uphill. The path is easy to find and if you keep to it, it's not likely that you get lost."

"Good idea," Duff said. 

"No, it's not," Slash interrupted them. "I'm not going for a walk."

"You're going to get a pretty good impression of the land that belongs to the cottage," Ms Brompton continued as if she hadn't heard his objection. "You should know what you're talking about when you meet Mr Flaggins."

"See," Duff said. "We'll go and have a look and tonight you'll be so fucking tired you wouldn't even wake up if there was really a ghost in the house."

Slash nodded in defeat. If he didn't agree to climb up a hill, Duff would just keep ruining what was left of his reputation. He wondered if Ms Brompton was aware that she could make quite a bit of money by selling the story of how Slash of Guns n' Roses chased ghosts in a cottage that had belonged to his crazy aunt. And had obnoxiously loud shower sex with his bandmate. Thank God she didn't seem the type to watch MTV. 

"We can make sandwiches and have a picnic," Duff said. 

"I don't think we'll be gone long enough for that," Slash objected weakly, but he knew it was no good. 

"Just keep in mind that the sun sets early this time of the year." Ms Brompton put the last package of toast into the cupboard. "It will also give me the time to finish the accounting for this month. I suppose you will prefer to have the books in order, won't you."

Slash didn't answer. As if they had kept her from doing her work. All they had done so far was avoiding her. 

"I'm done." Duff shovelled the last eggs into his mouth, wiped up the yolk with toast and slurped the last drops out of his cup. "Come on, or it'll be dark before we leave."

###

"I'm not going."

Right after breakfast Slash had escaped to the library. He couldn't say what exactly made him return to this room again and again, but apart from the kitchen it was the only place where he didn't feel the woes of centuries weighing on his shoulders.

"You said you'd come." Duff stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms folded in front of his chest.

"I changed my mind." Feet on the window sill, Slash slouched deeper into the armchair. He could be just as stubborn as Duff. Or at least he could try. 

"I've made sandwiches."

Did Duff really think sandwiches were enough to make him jump up and run outside to frolic over green meadows? 

"Bacon and cheese and tomatoes. We can also have cookies."

Slash stared out of the window. The sky was blazing blue and the hills looked almost inviting. Almost. 

"How long do you want to stand there and glare at me?" he asked when Duff settled for silent and reproachful. 

"Until you're coming."

Slash snorted "In that case I hope you brought your sandwiches 'cause you're gonna need them."

"You said you'd come," Duff replied stubbornly and suddenly Slash wasn't willing to play his puppy-games anymore. 

"Did you have to say all that shit?" he snapped and took his feet off the window sill to sit up straight. "You made me look like a total nutter."

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true."

"Yeah, right. How about you keep it to yourself for once, huh?"

Duff's face hardened. "How about you stop wallowing in self-pity and come out for a bit of fresh air?"

"What the fuck is that gonna help?" Slash yelled, but Duff didn't even flinch.

"I don't know. But I'm not watching why you're brooding about stupid shit, 'cause that ain't healthy either. You know what I think? I think it's this sitting around all day that does it. So, get a fucking move on and drag your sorry ass out there, 'cause I don't care if you want it or enjoy it or whatever, you're going to get a bit of exercise 'cause I'm fed up with running after you and your ghosts each night."

"Then take your shit and move into one of all those other bedrooms," Slash snapped. "What is it to you anyway?"

Duff rolled his eyes. "You worry me, you dimwit, OK? You've never been like this. Or at least not this bad. And, sorry Slash, but with all the shit you've taken this might be serious. And, no, I'm not preaching. Could happen to any of us. Only this is a really sucky moment for it, ‘cause we’re in the middle of nowhere and cut off civilization and I don’t know what I should do if this gets any worse. I don't know whether being outside is going to help, but it ain't gonna hurt you either, so why not give it a try?"

Slash looked away. "You still believe I'm shooting up, right?"

Duff smirked and shook his head. "Unless you've invented new and hidden places to prick yourself with the needle, no."

"You mean…" Slash startled and then he was caught by a different kind of anger. "You bastard. That's why you wanted shower sex. And that's why you were so …. so…."

"Thorough?" Duff grinned. "Ah, come on, it was the most enjoyable examination you've head in your life."

Slash chuckled. He should be furious, but just couldn't help it. 

"Bastard," he repeated, but his bad temper was gone. 

"So, you're coming now? 'cause, really, you can't sit here and stare at the walls for the rest of our stay. That would push everybody over the edge."

Slash sighed. "I've got no real choice, huh?"

"Not really." Duff cocked his head. 

"OK." He stood up. "Get your fucking sandwiches."

###

The footpath started a couple of yards behind the cottage. They had to cross a swampy meadow and after only a couple of steps, Slash's trainers were soaked. 

'Make sure to close all gates securely behind you,' Ms Brompton had impressed upon them and when Slash fiddled the rusty piece of chain back around the pillar of the fence, he cast a look back at the cottage. It looked smaller from this side, lying beneath the hill, and not quite as threatening. 

The window to the locked room was on the right side, directly under the roof, but even a glimpse on its interior was thwarted by the light that was reflected by the glass. 

"You coming?" Duff called. 

He was already a couple of steps ahead and when Slash turned his back on the house, he felt its eyes on his back; whether it watched them like a mother seeing off her children or a cat waiting patiently for the mice to return, he couldn't say. 

Slash didn't come from a family which indulged in the habit of Sunday afternoon walks, and hiking across the hills was even further away from what he was used to. The path, rough and narrow, was hardly more than a sheep track. It led around the hill that had given the cottage its name and then followed a little stream that ran towards the river. 

It soon became obvious that this kind of underground required more attention than the streets of L.A. and so he stumbled over shrubs of heather, slipped on wet stones and almost broke his ankles in hidden rabbit holes. His trainers were no match for the black, soggy peat and the legs of his jeans collected mud with each step he made. 

Sheep, most of them with twin-lambs jumped up and galloped up the hills as soon as they spotted them, then stopped at a safe distance and watched them full of suspicion. Slash was convinced that they laughed at his awkward stumbling and once he noticed two lambs that were definitely snickering while they peered into his direction. 

"This sucks," he mumbled, keeping his eyes to the ground to watch out for the numerous hidden mantraps. "Who the fuck declared this a path? This isn't a path, this is a disgrace."

Every now and then he looked up, but apart from the view that stretched farer over the valley with each step they made, the scenery just remained the same. He only hoped Duff would be able to find the way back; he himself surely wasn't. 

"Nice here, isn't it?" Duff stopped and pushed his sunglasses up. 

"No, it isn't." Grateful for a break, Slash took a deep breath. He wasn't used to this kind of exertion. His legs hurt and he was developing stitches. "I think that was enough exercise, let's go back, OK?"

Duff shook his head. "Just look at it," he said. "It's all yours. Isn't that great?"

"I'd rather inherit a piece of beach somewhere," Slash replied. "Or a bar, or a strip-club or maybe…"

"Or maybe you shut up and be happy with what you've got." 

Slash shrugged. So this was his land, so what? He would sell it anyway. It didn't mean anything to him. Even without a haunted house as bonus he wouldn't want to spend any time at a place like this. It was bleak, rural and utterly boring. 

"We can have a break if you want," Duff suggested. 

It was a peace-offering and Slash wondered if maybe he felt guilty for accusing him of taking drugs. 

"Down there, for example." He pointed towards a couple of rocks and a grassy patch down the hill. 

"Why not just here?" 

They had to leave the path and climb down the slope for about a hundred yards. 

"Because the rocks catch the sun and it's gonna be warmer and drier down there."

"It's warm enough here." It was sunny and calm and Slash had tied his jacket around his waist about an hour ago. 

"Down there is better. Come on." 

Before Slash got another chance to protest, Duff just ran down the slope, jumping over bunches of heather, then stepping into one of those innumerable rabbit-holes and falling right onto his nose, he rolled downwards towards his destination. 

Slash groaned. "I swear, if you sprained your ankle or something you can hop back home on one leg." 

He followed, though, staggering through knee high scrubs, chasing up rabbits and big, plump birds that flew up with angry cackling. 

"You OK?" he gasped when he reached Duff who had stopped rolling on a patch of short-bitten, almost white grass. 

Duff blinked. He had lost his sunglasses and acquired a couple of scratches on his face.

"Nice here, isn't it?" He reached out and when Slash lent him a hand to help him up, Duff just pulled him down and onto his chest. 

"Heh," Slash protested and freed himself. 

Duff giggled. 

"You're stupid," Slash groused, determined to hate every minute of this trip. "Did you bring something to drink? My tongue feels like a piece of fucking cardboard."

"Only water." Duff sat up, took off the backpack and handed him the bottle. "I bet the sandwiches are all squashed, now that I fell onto them. And the cookies are all crumbled."

"Probably." Slash drank. Then he fiddled his cigarettes out of his pocket and looked for a place to sit down. Who cared for cookies when there were cigarettes?

Duff had been right; the sunrays were caught in the sheltered corner, but apparently the rabbits enjoyed the warmth, too. The grass was covered with droppings. As good as possible Slash cleaned a patch wide enough for his ass and sat down. 

"Bacon or cheese?" Duff asked and held up the sorry remainders of his earlier endeavours.

"Doesn't matter." Slash stretched out a hand and took what had once been a foil-wrapped sandwich, but was now flat as a pancake.

Duff picked up his sunglasses and plopped down next to him.

"Cigarette," he said and held out his hand. 

They smoked, ate crumbled food and to his surprise Slash felt the fog of the last days lift from his mind. The cottage was out of view and the hill an effective enough shield to make him almost forget about it. He leant back and closed his eyes, and when Duff took the burning cigarette butt out of his hand to savour the last drags himself, he didn't even complain. 

He looked up again when Duff sneaked a hand under his shirt and pulled it upwards inch for inch.

"Hey, it's cold!" he said, but did nothing to fend Duff off.

"It's not that cold." Duff straddled him and bent down to lick over his belly. "You still have your winter coat, you know."

"My what?" Slash touched Duff's head, first gently, and then he ruffled through his hair with both hands. He loved Duff's hair, it was fluffy and shaggy and the more he ran his hands through it, the better it looked. 

"Your winter coat." Duff came up. "You're still all white down there. Time for you to change your colour."

Slash laughed. "You, too."

Duff shook his head. "I don't change my coat. Not like you. You're all white during winter and all dark during summer. Come on, it's time to turn into Summer-Slash."

Before Slash could protest, Duff had pulled his t-shirt up and almost over his head. He could just as well give in or he'll end in a struggle about t-shirt on and t-shirt off which Duff would win in the end anyway. 

Duff was right, it really wasn't that cold. The sun felt good on his skin, but not as good as Duff's tongue that licked over his chest like he was a popsicle. 

"We only had sex a couple of hours ago," Slash mumbled and leant his head against the rock as Duff demanded access to his neck. 

"That doesn't count," Duff replied unclearly. He nipped at his nipples, trying to pull them into his mouth and eventually getting hold of the left one with his teeth. "I didn't really enjoy myself. I was too busy."

"Yeah, that was mean." Slash pulled at Duff's hair, not brutally, but hard enough to be painful. 

"Ouch," Duff let go of his nipple. "That fucking hurt." 

"I don't think this is a good place for sex," Slash said. He wasn't too fond of wilderness-sex. Sex at a swimming-pool was nice or even on a beach bed, but not when bugs crawled into his ass and sand and dirt rubbed painfully over sensitive body-parts. 

Duff sat up. "I think this is a perfect place. We're alone, we have all the time in the world and anyway, it's good for you."

Slash raised his eyebrows. "It's good for me?"

"Yes." Duff winked. "Helps you relax."

Slash rolled his eyes. "I think I'm relaxed enough."

"Yeah you are." Duff smiled. "Because I worked all day on getting you there. So be a good boy now and listen to Dr. Duff. And Dr. Duff says that you should lie down to be fucked. If you take your medicine without complaints, you might get ice-cream for dessert."

Slash laughed. He tried to push Duff out of his lap, but Duff didn't budge.

"Why are you so sure that I didn't take some kind of pills?" Slash asked. "Or smoked crack. Or snorted cocaine? Then all your body-search wouldn't have led anywhere." 

Duff cocked his head. "I've thought about that, you know. But you wouldn't lie to me for a line of coke. So, I figured it had to be smack. There's nothing you love more than your smack. OK, except Guns maybe, but apart from that?"

"You," Slash said and touched Duff's face. 

"What me?" Duff leant into his hand. 

"Maybe I'm addicted to you."

"You think so?" 

Duff smiled a little and Slash cupped his face with both hands. He rubbed his thumbs over his cheekbones and over his lips and when Duff opened his mouth, he moved upwards to kiss him. 

"I think so."

Slash looked away. It wasn't exactly a love-declaration, but already more than he had intended to ever say. They fucked. They weren’t lovers. Putting Duff under emotional pressure was not fair. 

"That's OK," Duff said. "I'm a healthier addiction than smack."

"But just as incurable."

He pulled Duff down into another kiss and Duff reached for his fly, opened the buttons and sneaked a hand into his pants. 

"You know, there's something I can do against the withdrawal symptoms," he whispered against his lips. "But therefore you have to take off your pants."

Slash forgot about his aversion against outdoor-sex faster than he had thought possible. Duff spread out their jackets and pushed him down. 

"The ground is fucking hard," he muttered, but Duff just hushed him with another kiss and a firm grip around his dick. 

"Want me to stop?" he asked and squeezed.

Slash gasped and shook his head. 

"No, you wouldn't." Duff chuckled. "Junky that you are."

Slash shivered when a breeze dried the trail of saliva Duff left on his belly before he took his cock into his mouth and sucked. 

"Lube," Slash groaned when Duff's fingers wandered downwards. "Anything we can use as lube?"

"Sheep-shit," Duff suggested and almost choked on his laughter. "Or KY, your choice"

Slash opened an eye. "You've planned this, didn't you?" he said 

"Of course, I did." Duff pulled the backpack over and took out the tube. "I told you I'd cure you, didn't I? This is all part of the treatment."

Slash closed his eyes again, not caring that once more he had been tricked. He had been talked into worse things than being fucked between prickly heather and hysteric rabbits. Far worse. 

"Now, how does this feel?" Duff pushed two fingers in at once and Slash gasped. 

"You don't believe in gentle medicine, do you?" he grunted and tried to relax. It was difficult when at the same time something hard dug into his back, an annoying fly took a liking to his face and the dampness from the ground slowly seeped through the jackets. 

"You want me gentle?" Duff asked.

Slash didn't answer. He wasn't sure. Did he? Sex with Duff was always a strange mixture of rough shoves and pokes in combination with lots of caresses and kisses and affection. He often skipped foreplay, but made up with long after-sex cuddling. Sex with Duff was never what one expected. Suddenly demanding gentleness would change things and he wasn’t sure he was ready for a new level. Gentleness, tenderness, affection. Love. 

"Like this?" Duff went on. 

The tongue was back, together with a pair of lips that sucked at his neck and his jaw line. Before Slash could articulate his approval, Duff pulled his fingers out and replaced it with something of far more impact. So much for being gentle. Not that it mattered. He would make up for it the next time, when Duff was on the receiving end, squirming and wriggling and begging for more. Watching Duff come undone under him was one of the hottest things he had ever experienced, and he would make sure they got a repeat of that before long. Sex had been a bit selfish during the last days, leaving it to Duff to take care of his needs, but not offering too much in return. 

"Wow, you really like it." 

Duff chuckled and Slash didn't tell him that it was a totally different image that had rekindled his interest. Instead he just opened up further and the fly, the stones and the dampness vanished right from his focus when Duff changed the angle a little and adjusted his aim. 

Suddenly he was glad that they were out in the wilderness, and not in the cottage where both, the house and Ms Brompton heard every word, every gasp and certainly every scream. He reached for Duff's hips and pulled him forward. Duff complied and thrust harder, once, twice and then he faltered. 

"Do you have to fucking stop now?" Slash moaned, not in the mood to play the usual games of delaying and prolonging. 

"Yes, I have to," Duff replied and to his dismay, Slash felt him shrink inside him and slip out. 

Slash blinked. Duff still hovered over him, pushed up on his knees and elbows, but his attention was elsewhere. 

"And now you put your clothes back on and move your perverted little asses right off my land," a voice said. 

Slash twisted his head. He couldn't really turn around, not with Duff's body blocking him, but he did make out the barrel of a shotgun pointing into their direction. 

"Your land?" Duff's voice rose and although it was still rather calm, Slash already heard the thunder growling. "Your land?" He stood up. 

Slash quickly rolled onto his stomach and now he saw the offender. It was a man around fifty, dressed in a green parka, a cap on his head and a yapping collie by his side. 

Duff stepped forward. Not even bothering to look for his clothes he stood there, his hair standing up into all directions and an expression on his face that Slash had very rarely seen and hoped would never be turned against himself. 

"The last time I checked it was our land. And if you think you can scare me with that fucking toy in your hand, then lemme tell ya something, dude. When a drug-dealer rams an automatic into your face, that's scary, not if some wannabe Rambo waves around with a little-kiddie-plaything that's barely good enough to fuck a rabbit up its ass."

Slowly Slash stood up. "Duff," he said softly and stepped up next to him. "That little-kiddie-plaything is probably loaded. And it doesn't matter whether it's our land or not, it's not worth dying over it."

"He's not gonna shoot," Duff spat. "That takes more guts than sneaking up on a couple of guys with a gun and dog."

To Slash's relief, the man lowered the gun until it pointed to the ground. 

"You're the Hudson lad, right?" he asked and his eyes turned from Duff to Slash. "My name is Flaggins. Ms Brompton might have told you that I've rented the land. Now, you can't blame me for not recognizing you right away. Last time I saw you, you were like this." He held his hand up at about the height of his knee. 

Slash frowned. “You know me?”

"Knowing would be said too much. I suppose we should talk before you're leaving. If you're interested in selling, I might be interested in buying. But we should discuss business when you're wearing some clothes." He tipped at his cap. "A good day to you, sir. Give me a call whenever you have the time to talk about business."

'Wait,' Slash wanted to call when Flaggins turned around and whistled for his dog. 

"Fucker!" Duff snatched his clothes off the ground. "Totally ruined the mood."

Slash stood still, watching the green back retreat. Every now and then the collie's black and white fur bopped up between the heather and then they were gone. 

"Slash?" He was pulled out of his fugue when Duff wrapped his arms around his waist from behind and rested his chin onto his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Want to try again?"

"He knows me," Slash said, not even bothering with a reply. Only Duff would simply return to sex after somebody had just pushed a gun into his face. 

"He does?" Duff let go of him. "If you don't want to fuck anymore, then I think you should get dressed. And anyway, you've got bunny-shit in your hair."

"I…what?" Startled Slash reached up and to his dismay Duff was right. 

"Fuck," he spat. "I've only washed it this morning." Uttering a string of curses, he collected his clothes from where Duff had divided them over the heather. He scrambled into his jeans, which were clammy and uncomfortable; the t-shirt was hardly better and his jacket was covered with dirt stains. 

Duff sighed. "Sit," he ordered. "I'll pick them out."

"I can do that myself," Slash muttered, but Duff simply pulled his head towards himself and sifted through the curls like he was delousing a fellow monkey, picking out grass, twigs and rabbit droppings. 

"Done," he declared after a couple of minutes. "Wasn't half that bad."

Slash grumbled his thanks. He'd always known that outdoor sex was stupid; he hadn't even come, but still had to deal with all the inconveniences it brought along. Tomorrow he would have bruises where he had been lying on stones, and there were probably insect-bites at places where scratching was not funny. 

His thoughts quickly returned to Flaggins. "I must have been here before," he said, while he packed their belongings into the backpack.

Duff stuffed a handful of cookie-crumbs into his mouth and shrugged.

"As a child. I must have been here with my parents."

"And? Where's the point?"

"It's proof that I'm not mad. I'm really remembering things. I don't make it up. And why didn't my parents ever tell me about this?" According to his father, there hadn't been any contact to Aunt Cecile for decades. "I bet something terrible has happened while we were here."

They were climbing up the hill again and Slash had difficulties to keep up with Duff. 

"Like what?" Duff stopped for a moment to let him catch up. He wiped a wad of hair out of his eyes and fixed it on his head with his sunglasses. 

"Like an accident. Or maybe worse. Murder. Maybe that's what I'm feeling. Maybe I've been a witness or something and have forgotten it all. Maybe my parents only wanted to protect me and pretended it had never happened."

The last couple of yards towards the footpath were steep and when they had finally covered them, Slash was out of breath. 

"I think we go back," Duff said after a short look towards the sky. "Looks like rain again and it's more than an hour anyway."

"You still think I'm making this up, don't you?"

Duff sighed. "How about this," he said and guided his steps back towards the cottage. "Flaggins and Ms Brompton are a little more than just friends or business-partners or whatever. They were quite comfy where they are now. He's got the land and she's ruling over the house as if it was hers. And here you come, ready to pull it all out from under their asses. So, what do they do? Arrange this little ghost-story. Tell you about how all your family members go mad, 'n' shit. Until all you want is getting rid of the property as fast as possible. And here, what a nice coincidence, is Flaggins, ready to buy it and take it out of your hands. How convenient. Of course, he's not going to pay market-value, but, heh, it's a haunted house, so you should be happy anybody's buying it anyway, right?"

"That's bullshit." Slash stumbled after Duff, his shoes growing heavy with mud. 

"Sure. While your story makes sense."

"It does!" Slash yelled. 

It did. He'd been here before. Duff had no idea how it felt to have one déja vu after the next, to hear long-forgotten voices and feel the pain and woes of people he had never met; or maybe had met in a life he couldn't recall anymore. His world had stopped being the tight, concealed room he was used to. A second, far scarier world was shimmering through the thinning membranes and he could already make out tiny pinholes where it was leaking through. Eventually the walls would break, and it remained to be seen whether he was going to drown in the resulting flood wave or was able to swim.


	6. Mine!

**Mine!**

Slash did sleep that night, deep and peaceful and if he dreamt at all, then he wasn't aware of it. 

He was surprised when he heard Duff call out his name. His voice was low, not like a whisper, more like it was coming from very far away; the ghost of a voice that urged him to leave the soothing state of oblivion he had just managed to establish and return into a world that for the moment held very little attraction. 

"Slash! Wake up, man! Wake up! Now!"

Just when Slash thought about obeying the command, somebody slapped his cheek, gently first and then with full impact. Ready to snap, he did open his eyes, but Duff's face was so full of worry that the snarl just died on his tongue and lay there like a dead animal. 

"Oh, fuck man, what are you doing here?" Duff asked. There wasn't any anger in his voice, not even a trace of impatience, instead it was so full of concern that it caused the animal on Slash's tongue to raise its fur in anticipation. 

'Sleeping,' he wanted to answer, but his teeth shattered too hard to speak, and only then did he notice how cold he was. He reached for the covers to slip back under their warmth, but there was nothing his hands could grip. Just… water.

Duff touched his cheek. "Your lips are all blue."

Bewildered Slash looked around. 

"What am I doing here?" he asked while his gaze travelled over the sink, the toilet, the chipped tiles and the blind mirror. 

"That's something you've gotta tell me, dude."

Slash looked down. The water in the tub was cold and from the wrinkled and numb state his skin was in, he had been sitting here for a quite a long time. 

"Why did you carry all the water up here?" Duff asked.

"Carry?" His mind was just as sluggish as his limbs, stiff and frozen after who knew how much time of sitting in a tub full of cold water. 

"Yeah, carry. This bathroom's out of use, right?" Duff turned the tabs, but neither of them spilled water. 

"I don't remember," Slash whispered. "I don't even remember getting up. I must have been sleepwalking."

Duff sighed. "And what about this?" 

He picked up a plastic duck that had swum unimpressed between Slash's knees. It had clearly seen better days. The once bright colours, the yellow feathers and the red beak had faded. The original colours could only be made out at single spots here and there, and where once eyes had looked back at the owner, only dark smudges had survived the years. 

Duff dropped the duck back into the water and there it bounced on the waves, nodding its head and raising its tail. 

A long time ago the surface had been smooth and unmarred. The damaged eyes had been blue, with long lashes and a white spot in the black pupil; a human eye rather than a bird's. Slash could see it clearly, a shiny toy in the plump hands of a toddler. 

"You've gotta get out," Duff said and pulled the plug. "I go and get you a towel."

He muttered something upon his leave, something too low for Slash to understand, but then, he didn't need words. This was just another episode in his decline into insanity and if he needed a sign that he had left the state of being irritating and had made the first step into the direction of becoming a cause for serious worry, then Duff's lack of anger was all he needed. You didn't yell at a mental patient. You simply took care of him. 

Slash made out the drain on the bottom of the tub and he listened to its gurgles and smacking noises while it swallowed the water. 

The duck got caught in the current and started to turn around itself, swaying and struggling to keep its head above the water. 

"Mine!" he heard a high-pitched voice call out. "Mine! Mine! Mine!"

The duck lost its struggle and keeled over. Slash stared at its bottom while it turned and tumbled towards the drain. He almost didn't notice the letters. Once written with a waterproof pen they had faded over the years, washed away by water, soap and time. He squinted and looked once more, but there was no mistaking. It was a name, written in block letters, not in a child's handwriting, but rather by a mother who was fed up with the children fighting over the ownership of a toy. 

A name. It shouldn't hold any meaning to him, but still it made his heart stumble and his breathing stock. He could hear it clearly in his mind, yelled in anger, called full of worry, contorted by laughter and whispered like a caress. An inexplicable sadness overcame him; a feeling of loss when he hadn't even been aware that he was missing something. 

The tub had dried. Slash picked up the plastic duck and ran his fingers over the letters. A name, called out from another world and trailing off unheard by those still alive; except for him. He did hear it, loud and clear and he wouldn't just cover his ears and ignore it. And so he listened, closed his eyes and reached out, and for a second he thought he had caught a glimpse, a weak shadow, too flighty to be pinned down, and gone before he could be sure. 

"Jonah," he whispered, and far away a child answered with laughter. 

###

Unable to find anymore sleep, Slash detangled himself from Duff as soon as the first sunrays tinted the room a pale grey. He tried to slip out unnoticed, but as usual he stood no chance. 

"Slash?" Duff asked alarmed, a whole tale of worry distilled down to a single word.

"I'm fine," he replied, not sure whether it was a lie or not. Maybe he was not fine, but at least he was calm now that the crippling fear of the last days was gone.

"You sure?" Duff asked. 

He looked up at him, hair tangled, eyes vulnerable, and a sudden wave of tenderness brought a faint smile to Slash's lips. 

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Duff's head hit the pillow and Slash caught a glimpse on long, naked arms and legs as he wrapped himself tightly into the blanket. He waited a couple of seconds, making sure that Duff settled again, before he collected his clothes and sneaked upstairs into the library. 

Morning reached out for the world with countless tiny tendrils, but it hadn't managed to wrap them around the cottage yet. The house was still asleep, night still hovering in nooks and crannies, the shadows reluctant to give way to the light that leaked through the windows. 

The wood floor of the library creaked under his feet as he walked along the line of shelves. He let his fingers travel over the spines of the numerous books, old, often-read volumes, yellowed by age and worn away from use. 

Slash didn't have any difficulties to find the one he was looking for. It was exactly where Duff had put it back, between Wuthering Heights and Northanger Abbey. He pulled it out, carefully, as if it might crumble under his touch; as if it was just as fragile as the memories that haunted him. He carried it over to the armchair and sat down, the book unopened in his lap. 

How often had Aunt Cecile been sitting here, her gaze wandering over the hills, watching a world she wasn't a part of? Snow, rain, sunshine and snow again. The years had passed without touching the cottage that lay forgotten under the hill, connected to the rest of the world only via an unreliable bridge. 

Today the sky was overcast again, the hills hidden behind yet another veil of mist. But inside Slash's head the mist had cleared. He still lacked details, yes, in fact he had less tiles to the mosaic than lay still scattered in the recesses of his memory, but he had collected enough to have a guess at the picture they had once made. 

Aunt Cecile had given birth to a child. Jonah. When and under which circumstances the boy had been born remained to be found out, but given her age it had likely happened at a time when a child without a father had still been a scandal in a rural area like this. If it had happened up here in the North. Had she moved to Underhill Cottage before or after Jonah had been born? Was he the reason for the rift between her and the family?

Slash rested his head against the window and peered outside. The garden lay just as quiet as the house. Dew glistened on the leaves and adorned each grass-blade with a tiny diamond. He caught a movement in one of the flowerbeds and spotted the cat, her fur just as grey as the mist, prowling through the high grass. She carried a kitten, still tiny, in her mouth. Slash watched her vanish behind the garden-shed and while he wondered if maybe she had discovered a gap in the wall, she already returned and hurried back to the young ones she had left behind. 

The book lay still in his lap, but he could almost feel its heart beat under his fingers. At the corners the cover was worn down, and the old-fashioned drawing of a rabbit-family in clothes had made room for the plain, grey cardboard that lay underneath. The spine was broken and the pages dog-eared from being turned again and again while a child had put his fingers onto the pictures. Slash opened it without the slightest hesitation. Nothing that had been loved like this book could possibly be evil. 

'Once upon a time there were four little rabbits…' 

No. Not four. There had been only one; one who shouldn't have even been there at all, and whose life had ended before it had really begun. 

What had happened to Jonah? The only question that was easy to answer. Jonah had died. He had lived long enough to play with plastic ducks and look at picture books, but not to leave his mark on this world. Jonah had died and left a wound in Aunt Cecile's heart that had been too deep to heal. 

The page torn from the bible lay where Duff had put it back and Slash read through the marked paragraph. 

'So they took up Jonah, and cast him forth into the sea; and the sea ceased from its raging.'

Maybe this was only a metaphor, maybe Aunt Cecile had thought of the family, the neighbours when she referred to the raging sea, or maybe she had been far more literal. 

A child had died the last time the bridge had cracked. A child. Jonah. 

Slash closed the book, but didn't put it back. The cat passed the garden again, carrying a second kitten and he wondered how many she had born. He would have a look later, when she had settled her family in the new home. 

Had he been here at the day of Jonah's death? Knee-high he had been the last time his parents had taken him North. Jonah must have been around the same age when he had died. Had they been fighting over the plastic duck? Maybe they had both owned one, a present bought on the same day, either by Jonah's mother or his own parents. Had they mixed them up, fighting over the ownership until somebody had been enervated enough to write their names on them? Slash closed his eyes and tried to picture his own duck, his own name written onto its bottom, but his mind remained blank. He wasn't part of the story yet; but soon he would be. 

It was cold in the library and he wished he had brought a blanket. He could stand up and fetch one of course, but instead he just sat and waited, for what, he wasn't sure. 

Each answered question raised a dozen new ones, but there was only one reasonable explanation for why his parents had never mentioned Aunt Cecile's child to him. Not because his birth had been overshadowed by a scandal, but his death. Slash was sure that in some way he was connected to it, maybe had caused it somehow, had burdened himself with a terrible guilt at an age too young to be held responsible for it. His parents had decided to spare him the shadow that would have overcast his whole life, had tried to protect him from a load too heavy for a knee-high boy. 

It was also the reason why Aunt Cecile had bequeathed the house to him. No, not only the house, but the secret that was just as much a part of it as the walls, the roof and the chimney. She had forced him to return to the place where once he had extinguished a life and ruined another; not for revenge, not in an act of malicious vendetta, but to tell him a story that had been kept untold for too long a time. 

Life was memory. With Aunt Cecile gone there was nobody who remembered Jonah anymore, nobody who bothered to keep his story alive and thus it would be as if he had never lived at all. 

Aunt Cecile had decided to make it his legacy, and Slash wouldn't try to relieve himself of this duty. There was no reason to be afraid, and so he wasn't. Not anymore. Instead he would wait until they were ready to tell him. And they would. In their own time they would come to him and let him know. All he had to do was keeping his mind open and listen. And so he waited; but for once all he encountered was silence. 

###

"You're nuts," Duff said when Slash told him about his conclusions. "Really, Slash, each day you come up with a story that is worse than the one before. Yesterday you were a murder-witness, today you murdered somebody yourself."

"Then who is Jonah?" Slash asked angrily. "And why was his name on the duck?"

"Which duck?" Duff chewed on a piece of bread. 

They were alone in the kitchen as Ms Brompton had set about cleaning the windows on the upper floor. Especially those in the library, which were smeared like somebody constantly put his nose against them, she had said. 

"The plastic duck. The one I've had in the bath-tub."

Duff frowned. "There wasn't a duck."

"Sure, there was a duck. You picked it up and asked what it was, remember?"

"No, I didn't." Duff swallowed and poured coffee after the bread. 

"There was a fucking duck," Slash repeated. Why did Duff always have to be so obtuse? 

Duff sighed. "Can we just skip that? If I believe you that there was a duck, do we still have to spend the day looking for it?"

Without another word Slash stood up. Of course, Duff didn't believe him. What had he been thinking? Ghosts didn't exist in his world where everything had an explanation and where the only family secret was Daddy getting it off with other women while Mommy was out for work. And anyway, there were so many McKagans, if one of them drowned in an accident, nobody would care or even notice. They would just make more.

"Where are you going?" Duff called after him. "Oh, fuck, Slash, come back, this really isn't worth…"

He didn't get the rest. The creaking of the staircase sufficiently extinguished Duff's voice. He entered the bathroom and looked for the duck, but it wasn't there. For a moment he sat down on the rim of the tub. Duff wouldn't have taken it away, not even as a joke; not under the current circumstances. That left only Ms Brompton. 

Facing Ms Brompton wasn't exactly on the top of Slash's priority list, but he still marched up to the second floor, determined to prove his point to Duff. He found her in the library, where she was busy polishing the windows.

"Ms Brompton?" 

She stopped rubbing the rag over the glass, and stepped down from the ladder she had been using. 

"There was a plastic duck in the bathroom. The unused one on the first floor."

"A plastic duck?" Her face expressed mild confusion.

"A yellow one."

Slash turned around when Duff entered the room, and when he looked from Duff back to Ms Brompton he noticed that they both wore the same, concerned faces. 

"I'm not making this up," he said. "There was a plastic duck in the bathroom and I want to know where it is."

"I haven't seen one," Ms Brompton replied and picked up the rug. "But I noticed that there were water stains on the tub. Did one of you know how that could have happened?" 

"Slash had a bath tonight," Duff said. "And he extra carried all the water up there."

"I didn't carry any water," Slash snapped. "I think I would remember that, wouldn't I?"

Duff cocked his head instead of a reply and Slash grinded his teeth.

"Was their water tonight?" Ms Brompton asked, apparently not surprised about functioning taps in a dry bathroom. 

"I guess so," he grated out, not mentioning that he had no recollection of the process of filling the tub at all. 

"Or maybe it was a ghost," Duff quipped. "A helpful one, who fills your tub for you. Would have been nice of him to lay out towels, too."

"No, it sometimes happens." Ms Brompton climbed the stepladder again and resumed her task of cleaning windows. "The well was not the best to begin with and so a new, deeper one had to be built to supply the new bathrooms with water. When the old well eventually fell dry, the kitchen was connected to the new system, too, but it wasn't worth the cost to connect the old bathroom. Nobody was using it anyway. But sometimes, after heavy rainfalls, there is water in the well and it can be used for a day or two. Not that anybody ever did." 

She cast them a glance that clearly spoke her opinion about late-night-baths in the old bathroom. 

"It's only additional work to clean it."

"So, did you put the duck away when you cleaned it?" Slash asked, feeling his aggression accumulate like thunderclouds on a hot summer day. Somebody had taken the duck and it could only be her. 

"I didn't notice any ducks," she replied and he got the feeling that she regarded the duck as his equivalent of pink elephants. 

"Did my aunt have a son?" he asked. "Jonah?" 

She faltered for a split second before her hand took up once more the circling movement of polishing a window. 

"What makes you think that?"

"Does it matter?" Stubbornly he raised his chin and glared at her, willing for once to stare her down.

"Slash," Duff said softly and tucked at his sleeve. "Give it up, man."

"I don't know where you got this idea, Mr Hudson." 

There was a quiver in Ms Brompton's voice, so faint that it was barely notable, but it was there and Slash knew that he had put his finger into the right sore. 

"That's not an answer." 

She looked at him, her face unreadable as always, but for once Slash wasn't fooled by her posture. 

"She had a child, hadn't she? He died in that accident you mentioned, when the bridge crashed. And it was my fault, right? I killed him. And I want to know what has happened."

She shook her head and wiped the glass again, but this time her efforts were too weak to have any effect. 

"I have a right to know," he screamed and to his dismay he noticed that his voice was rising higher and higher, while his words tumbled across each other. "Where's the big deal about it? All I want to know is what exactly has happened and why nobody ever told me and…"

"Slash!" Duff stepped around him, seized both his arms and shook him. "Get a grip man! You're fucking hysteric."

Slash sobered. "I'm not mad," he said and the words came out like a sob. 

"I know." Duff's eyes betrayed his words as a lie. "I know, dude." 

He curled one hand around Slash's nape and squeezed in comfort and Slash just sank against his chest, his anger gone like Duff had punctured the bubble of rage with a needle. He'd never been so exhausted in his life, not even after months of touring, not even after an entire week of partying. This was worse. The tiredness pulled at his limbs and grated on his mind, wore him out and broke him down and although he knew that he was not insane, there was still the tiny seed of fear that maybe Duff was right and he was just hallucinating. 

"It's all right," Duff mumbled and stroked his head. "Everything's all right."

They were nonsense words, uttered only for the soothing effect they had on every hurt creature and not because they were meant that way, but Slash still gave in to them. 

"Ask your parents," Ms Brompton suddenly said. 

Slash freed himself out of Duff's embrace and looked up. She had stopped her cleaning activity, stood still up on the stepladder and eyed him with a mixture of compassion and understanding that was enough to confirm his suspicions. She knew about the tragedy that had happened at Underhill Cottage and her concession, though small, meant that his suspicions weren't that far off the mark.

"What…," He broke off when she shook her head. 

"Ask your parents. And that's all I'm going to say in this matter."


	7. Kittens

**Kittens**

"Ask your parents," Slash muttered as he followed Duff down the stairs. "How without a fucking phone, can you tell me? Duff? Where are you going? Heh!"

To his surprise, Duff didn't return to the kitchen to finish breakfast. He strode right out of the cottage and into the garden.

"Wait, man," Slash shouted after him. 

He was wearing only socks and it took him a moment until he had found both of his shoes in the hall. They were still slightly wet and muddy from the hike, but he just put them on and, without bothering to tie the laces, he ran after Duff. Duff was already a couple of steps ahead, marching along the grassy path, past snowdrops, daffodils and a few early tulips.

"Wait, I said." Slash grabbed his arm and stopped him. 

Duff turned. 

"I'm fed up with this shit," Duff said. "We're now going to break through that fucking door upstairs. And then we end this drama once and for all."

Slash let go of him and made a step back. 

"You can't do that."

Duff snorted. "Why not? Because it's precious and expensive? We have a number one record. I'll buy you a new one."

Slash shook his head. "It's not about money. We can't force him."

"Force whom?" Duff asked angrily. "The ghost of a child?"

"Why the fuck can't you believe me?" Slash bristled with anger. Wasn't Duff supposed to be on his side? Wasn't that his job as the most important person in his life? "Why do you have to be so fucking stubborn? You heard her. There is something. She's as much as admitted it."

Duff looked away. 

"What else do you think should I ask my parents about?"

"I…," Duff hesitated. "I do believe that something has happened at this house. And, yes, I do believe that maybe you were here at that time and that Ms Brompton knows about it. But don't demand that I believe in ghosts, Slash."

"Then how do you explain all this shit?" Slash gestured around, encompassing the house the garden, the whole valley into the movement of his hand.

"I think that being at this place wakes old memories. And that maybe you're a bit confused because it's not that long since you've stopped shooting up and you know how it goes."

"I do?" Slash asked full of belligerence. The mild expression Duff eyed him with was enough to rekindle his rage.

"Oh, come on." Duff threw up his hands. "I'm not saying you're fully hallucinating or some shit, I just say that you're blowing things up a little. And that maybe your eyes and ears are playing tricks on you because you're all worked up. But I promise, there's going to be a rational explanation for everything."

Slash huffed. 

"Heh." Duff tucked at his sleeve. "Happens to all of us, OK?"

"I hate you," Slash replied. 

Duff smirked. "That's good," he said. "Keeps you healthy. And now we're gonna find some crowbar or something and we're gonna break through that door and then at least we know if there's anything hidden in the attic or not. And when the bridge is repaired, we're gonna call your Dad and if he still doesn't want to tell you what happened here, then you hand him over to me and I'm gonna tell him a few things."

Slash wasn't convinced, but he didn't argue his case any further. You didn't rush a ghost and no matter what Duff said, it was a ghost they were about to chase up. 

Duff made a straight line for the garden shed and Slash followed suit. He rubbed his shoes against each other to get rid of the mud from the previous day, but his success was limited. He would have to clean them under the tap later. The shed wasn't locked and the door only closed with a simple latch, a flat, rusty iron handle that rested in a u-shaped hook. Duff had to jerk several times before he managed to pull it back and then the door swung open with a gnarl. 

"Careful," Slash said when the door almost broke out of its hinges. 

They entered and Duff closed the door behind them to keep it from falling apart. The shed was more spacious than it had looked from the outside. To one side tools were neatly lined up on hooks and shelves

"Your aunt liked gardening, huh?" 

Slash eyed the spades and blades, the rakes, hoes and forks. 

"I have no idea," he said. 

The other side was occupied by a large working bench. Planting pots were piled up, a couple of small pruning shears and garden clippers lay where the last user had left them. Bags of seeds were batched and held together with rubber bands. Aster, marigold, Canterbury bells. 

Slash ran a finger through the thin layer of potting soil on the bench. There was so little he knew about Aunt Cecile, her life was almost as forgotten as Jonah's. The only photo he had ever seen had been taken decades ago, the picture of a woman younger than he was now. He couldn't even remember the features of her face. 

So she had liked gardening. It wasn't an extraordinary hobby, but it was another one of all those pieces that turned a name into a person. He would have to talk to Ms Brompton. She was the one who had been there during the last twenty years of her life, who knew what she had been doing, thinking, wishing. He wouldn't allow her to keep it all to herself and thus extinguish another life. 

He picked up one of the shears and wondered when she had last used it. A brittle, thorny twig, a rose maybe, stuck between the blades. Slash pulled it out and the tiny leaves crumbled between his fingers.

She had been sick for quite some time before her death and would have lacked the strength for hard garden work, but maybe not even her illness had kept her from walking around and pruning the roses. 

Had it saddened her having to leave the garden to itself or had she loved its wild abundance and state of lavish neglect? An affluence of life when her own had been coming to an end. From the look of it, there had never been neat rows, straight lines and meticulously clipped bushes. Shrubberies grew over walls like rain showers, flowers peeped out of every crack and crevice and vines found hold where they wanted rather than where somebody had directed them. Maybe once upon a time she had been just like her garden, untamed, colourful and alive. It was a thought that made him happy. 

"Oh, look!" Duff suddenly exclaimed.

Torn out of his musings Slash looked over to where Duff had been going through the shelves in search for tools of violence and destruction. 

"What is it?" 

Duff beamed. "Kittens."

So he had been right and the cat had found her way into the shed. Slash stepped over to Duff and peered into the corner. She lay on a nest of burlap-bags that had been used to shelter sensitive plants from the winter. Two orange kittens nestled between her paws, yawned, but didn't take any notice of the visitors. 

"Now, at least daddy can't deny his fatherhood, can he?" Duff chuckled. "I'd say he left a clear enough mark."

He reached out to touch one of the babies, but the old cat hissed and clawed at him and he pulled his hand back. 

"You know," he said, "I bet this is what you heard that other night. Cats. It can really sound like a crying baby."

"I don't think so." Slash knew in advance that he needn't have bothered with a reply.

"Remember that time it happened to me, just the other way round?"

Slash shook his head.

"Sure you do. That one day where I thought I heard a cat mewling and was looking for it. Because I thought it had been locked in or some shit. And it turned out it was just Steven singing in the shower."

Slash rolled his eyes. "I can pull my legs all on my own, I don't need you for that."

"I'm not," Duff said with a pout and just because he was Duff, Slash believed him. "Anyway, I've found what we need." He brandished a crowbar. "And if there's a ghost behind the door, we're gonna throw him out of his coffin."

"Vampires sleep in coffins," Slash replied wearily, but Duff only shrugged. 

"Then we're gonna throw him out of wherever it is that ghosts sleep in." He also picked up a hammer and a chisel, a saw and gaspipe pliers and Slash started to worry for the safety of the house. 

"Here we go!" Duff announced and almost dropped his loot. "Duff, the ghostbuster, is coming for ya, you fucker!"

###

The door wasn't any more inviting than it had been the days before. Just as dark and sturdy it dared them to come nearer and Slash would have been happy to not challenge it. When Duff dropped the tools on the threshold it resonated like battle-cries in his ears and he almost expected the door to answer. 

Slash shivered. In an attempt to find out how they felt about the undertaking, he listened for the voices, but they remained silent. 

"Now," Duff said and hooked the crowbar between door and frame, "now we're gonna see what mysteries are behind his fucking door."

But the door didn't even budge. No matter how much he pulled and tore and levered, the oak, hardened over centuries, withstood. 

"Fuck," he gasped, readjusted his grip, and tried again. "These people really knew how to make a door." He groaned under the effort, but his endeavours remained fruitless. 

"It doesn't work that way," Slash said eventually.

"Ah really? No shit, good of you to let me know." Duff wiped sweat off his forehead. "Wouldn't be fun if it was so easy, would it?" He grinned. "Wouldn't fit into your good old horror movie either."

He picked up the hammer and tried to drive the chisel into the gap, but it was just as hopeless. Not even a chip of wood splintered under his attack. 

"I need wire." Duff eyed the lock, running a hand through his hair in contemplation. "Looks like we've gotta do it the scientific way."

"Scientific?" To Slash the black cast-iron lock didn't look like it would be impressed by Duff's criminal science. 

"Yeah. Shouldn't be difficult. The older the lock the easier to pick. I'll get some wire. I think there was a coil in the shed. I'll be back in a minute."

Slash sat down on the floor, a safe distance between himself and the door. Duff's line of thinking was easy to follow, open the door, get behind the riddle, problem solved. Slash on the other hand still felt that it was wrong. There was a reason why the door had been locked and it wasn't up to them to decide whether it was time to open it or not. 

When Duff returned, Slash huddled back against the wall, legs pulled close to his chest, hiding behind his hair, and watched how Duff formed hooks and nooses and threaded them into the lock. 

Under normal circumstances Duff's frustration level was low at best. He wasn't one to try the same route again and again. If one approach didn't work out, he dropped it and tried something new. This time though his patience seemed unlimited. 

Slash watched while Duff cowered in front of the door, an eye pressed against the lock, fiddling and fumbling and not getting anywhere at all. 

"Maybe there's a chance to get over the roof," he said eventually, slumped between his various tools. 

"The roof?" Slash asked, mildly shocked. 

"Yeah. The window is close to the corner of the house, if I climb down the roof maybe I can get there via the eaves gutter and…"

"No fucking way," Slash interrupted him.

"Why not? I've seen a rope in the shed, you could just…"

"No!" For once he was adamant. "No fucking way are you going to kill yourself over this door." 

"I wouldn't." Duff cocked his head. "At least not if you were holding the rope, you know. Of course, if you'd let it slip, then I would fall, but then it would be entirely your fault."

Slash swallowed. "I think one death on my conscience is enough."

"Aw, come on, man." Duff left his battle-field and crouched down next to him. "Don't get yourself worked up about something you don't even know."

"I love you," Slash blurted out. He was shocked about his own words, but now that he had said it, he didn't want to take it back. "I just wanted you to know before… "

"Before what?"

"Before we open that door and you'll finally believe me."

"And if I did?" Duff put an arm around his shoulder. "What would that change?"

"I don't know." Slash pressed his face against Duff's neck. 

"Let's assume, and I'm not saying it happened that way, I'm just saying if, OK?" Duff stroked Slash's hair. "I mean if just maybe you somehow got involved in an accident when you were how old? Four? Five? What fucking difference would it make?"

"No idea."

"Well, I've got one. None, you know. Fucking none."

Slash didn't answer. Duff was the only truly alive person in this house, his anchor to the presence, warm and soft and comforting. He wanted him to stay that way. 

"I love you, too," Duff said and ruffled his curls before he returned to his tools. "You know I do."

"This is all shit, you know?" He kicked the chisel out of the way. "I'd need an axe or something. Or a grenade launcher. If Flaggins shows up again, I’ll ask him for his gun."

"How about you just give up on it?" Slash asked. 

"Yeah. We could fuck instead, you know." He smirked, but then he picked up the wire and formed more hooks and nooses. 

Slash settled back and prepared himself to wait.


	8. Jonah

**Jonah**

They both slept well that night. When morning dawned outside the window, Slash opened his eyes to early sunrays and for the first time since his arrival, he felt well rested.

"Where did you find it?" Duff asked, when he woke himself. 

Slash didn't answer. He was sitting on the corner of the bed, the grainy reminders of sleep still in his eyes. Duff was right behind him and when he leant back a little, he felt Duff's chest against his naked back and Duff's breath in his ear. 

"I didn't."

The book lay open on the nightstand. Slash was convinced that he had closed it before he had turned off the light. Of course, he had. It was only a short tale, a couple of pictures and sentences, nothing that took more than a few minutes to read.

"He found a door in a wall, but it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath," he read, his voice a mere whisper. 

They wouldn't have to squeeze underneath. The key lay on the book. Not for a minute did Slash wonder whether it was the right key or not. It was black and heavy, the head made of squiggled cast iron, the bit over an inch long. 

"Maybe you were sleepwalking again," Duff said, but even he sounded brittle. 

Slash leant back another inch, until Duff's arms came around his waist in support and their cheeks were pressed together.

"Maybe somebody brought it here."

"Ms Brompton?"

Duff's ragged fingernails scraped over his belly. 

"No." 

"Ghosts don't exist," Duff said and his voice was almost steady. "I bet you were sleepwalking again. You do a lot of strange shit lately."

Slash ignored the sting. "What do we do?"

He stared at the key as if it was a snake, curled up and asleep at the moment, but ready to bite should it be roused by an incautious touch. If he was honest, he wouldn't rule out the possibility. What was alive was dead and what was dead came alive inside this house. So maybe a key wasn't only a key, just as a door wasn't only a door. 

"Use it, of course."

"I'm not sure, I mean, maybe we shouldn't…"

When Duff reached for the key, Slash caught his breath. To his surprise the key didn't bite, nor did it scream or turn searing hot or do anything else keys usually don't do. It was black and sturdy between Duff's long, pale fingers, but it remained just a key. 

"What are you doing?" he asked when Duff took his hand and turned it upwards. 

"It's your house." Duff laid the key onto his palm. "Your door, your ghosts and your key. You decide."

Slash stared at his hand. The key was warm, like somebody had kept it inside his pocket or rubbed it between his hands. Slowly he curled his fingers until the teeth bit into his flesh. He felt his blood pound where the metal pressed into his hand and for a moment, he became dizzy. 

"When I open it…" he swallowed as fear threatened to squeeze the air out of his lungs, "…will you come with me?"

Duff laughed. "Dude, do you think I want to miss this?" 

He scrambled past him and got awkwardly to his feet. 

"Come on." 

Slash took the offered hand and stood up. Without wasting a look, he put on the first clothes he happened to come across and followed Duff's tuck out of the room and up the stairs. It was only when they stood in front of the door that he noticed that he wasn't wearing his own sweatshirt, but one of Duff's. He stuck his nose into the collar and inhaled until Duff's scent was stronger than the mouldy fustiness of the cottage. 

"Ready?" Duff asked.

Slash nodded. His hand trembled and the key became heavier and heavier. Metal grated over metal when he inserted it into the key-hole and unable to watch how the barb vanished millimetre after millimetre, he closed his eyes. 

He shrieked and let go when Duff suddenly started to whistle right into his ear.

"You fucking idiot," he gasped and tried to control his shaking hands. 

Duff snickered and when he whistled again, Slash recognized the theme-song from _Ghostbusters_

"I'm fucking gonna kill you."

"Why worry, Venkman?" Duff asked. "Each one of us is carrying an unlicensed nuclear accelerator on his back."

For a moment Slash thought about a reply, but then he decided against it. It was pointless anyway. 

Before Duff could quote more stupid movies at him, he turned the key and opened the door. 

"That's not scary at all," Duff said. He sounded disappointed. 

No, the room wasn't scary. The morning sun, doing its best to penetrate a window that hadn't been cleaned in years, drew patterns of light onto the wood-floor while dust danced in the sunrays like a mobile over a baby's crib. 

"Looks like you were right, huh?" Duff pushed passed him and entered the room. "Your aunt had a baby."

Slash followed slowly. It was a nursery. A cot stood in one corner, a baby changing table in the other. A couple of toys lay on shelves and his attention was immediately caught by a yellow plastic duck that sat peacefully next to a stuffed dog. 

"Look," he said and picked it up. "I wasn't hallucinating. There's the name on the bottom." He turned the duck around "Right… here." 

'Saul' was printed in just the same handwriting that had written 'Jonah' onto the other duck. 

"Yeah," Duff said without bothering to have a closer look. "Guess you remembered the duck or something." He picked a large toy-lorry off the shelf and played with the mobile cargo bed.

Slash put the duck back and opened the drawers under the changing table. The first three contained neatly folded baby-clothes, but in the bottom one he found a shoe-box and pulled it out. He sat it onto the table and opened the lid. 

"Papers," he said and unfolded the first sheet. "A birth certificate."

"Really?" Duff lost interest in the lorry and walked over to the cot. 

"Jonah Hudson," Slash read. "Born July, 23 1965. We were born on the same day!"

"Yeah, but Jonah played with dolls." Duff picked two identical dolls out of the cot and held them up. "Did you play with dolls, too?" He put them back and joined Slash at the table where he pulled the cardboard box towards himself. 

Slash hardly heard what Duff said. His voice was drowned by the blood that rushed in his ears while he couldn't take his eyes off the birth certificate. 

"I've never seen my own birth certificate," he said while the letters jittered before his eyes. "It has gone lost during the move to L.A."

"It didn't," Duff said and for once there wasn't even a trace of joking in his voice. "It's here." 

Slash turned his head. Duff held up a second document and when he took it, his hand trembled so badly that he almost tore the paper. 

'Saul Hudson,' he read. 'Born on July, 23 1965. Mother Cecilia Hudson, father unknown.'

"Here are photos," Duff said. "Not many, but I guess this is your aunt. Or rather your …"

Slash took the picture and stared numbly at the woman who held two identical little boys in her lap. All three of them were laughing, the blonde mother just as well as her dark-haired sons. 

"I can't even say which one is you and which one is Jonah," Duff said. "You both look really just the same."

"I had no idea," Slash whispered. 

Duff wrapped his arms around him and only now did he notice how violently he was shaking. 

"What is this shit?" he forced out and crumbled the photo in his fist. 

"Hush," Duff whispered and pulled him against his chest. 

Slash let it happen. His chest burned as if he had swallowed a spoon full of Tabasco and he doubted his knees would have kept him upright without Duff's support. His Mom wasn't his Mom. His Dad wasn't his Dad. His brother wasn't his brother. Instead he had another brother and another mother, both of which he didn't even have a memory about. 

"Why didn't they tell me?" he mumbled into Duff's shirt. "Why didn't she call? Or write? And why does she leave her fucking house to me?"

"I don't know," Duff said and fiercely stroked his hair. "I have no fucking clue."

"How did you…" 

Slash looked up. Ms Brompton stood in the doorway, a little less impeccable than usual, dressed only in a nightgown and a bathrobe. 

"Where did you find the key?" she asked full of surprise. "I thought it had been lost years ago."

"It was in our room," Duff said. "Or maybe Slash found it while he was sleepwalking."

"I wasn't sleepwalking," Slash replied and straightened. There was no way that he would have a breakdown in front of Ms Brompton. "You knew about all this, didn't you?" he said.

"I haven't been inside this room in at lest 15 years," she said and adjusted her hair. The idea of being only half dressed in front of strangers clearly left her uneasy. "That was when the key went missing. And to be honest, I thought it was for the best."

"You knew everything," Slash repeated. The shock slowly weaned off and instead anger started to boil up. "Everybody knew everything and everybody was only ever lying to me." 

It all made sense now. The missing documents, the lack of early-childhood memories. There were a million baby-photos of his brother, but only a handful of him. 

'Everything has been so busy and hectic after you were born,' his parents had told him. No, not his parents. The people who pretended to be his parents. 

The idea was too much to bear. His thoughts stumbled across each other in an attempt to line up in a resemblance of order, but only collapsed in chaos. All his life had been a lie. No wonder his Mom had sent him to live with his grandma when he became too much trouble; he wasn't even her child. Maybe they had never wanted him, maybe they had only taken him because he had killed his brother and his real mother hadn’t wanted to keep him anymore. 

"Fuck you!" he yelled. "You're telling me now what the fuck happened here, you fucking old bitch!"

Ms Brompton was neither intimidated by his outbreak, nor did she seem offended. She only watched him with a mixture of pity and sympathy on her face that fit her about as well as a pink tutu would have. 

"I'd suggest you calm down first," she said and Slash wanted to hit her. "And then I'm going make breakfast before I tell you what I know. This is quite a long story and I don't know if you're at all familiar with your mother's history."

Slash flinched. "Don't call her my mother," he snapped, but his anger had already faded and made room for something else; an emptiness, the devastating feeling of having a rug pulled out from under his feet, of a complete world gone to pieces in less than a heartbeat. The dropping of a nuclear bomb couldn't have left him more desolate.

"Well, Cecile was your mother," Ms Brompton said unmoved. "That's the first thing you should come to terms with. Breakfast will be ready in twenty minutes. If you really want to hear the story, I'm going to tell you. But if I do, then I expect a minimum of proper behaviour."

"Bitch," Duff said after Ms Brompton had strode down the stairs like she was the Queen of England. 

"Yeah." Slash kicked the railing of the staircase. "Duff, why…"

"Shsh," Duff made and hugged him. "I have no idea. But she has. Only she won't tell you if you don’t get a grip first. So, I'd say we have a shower and you calm down a bit and then we'll go and have breakfast, and pretend to be nice to her, and find out what this is all about."

"Why not beat it out of her right now?" Slash muttered, but followed when Duff ushered him downstairs. 

"Because she's tougher than you are," Duff replied. "Really, I'd hold her down while you squeeze her with red-hot tongs, only she wouldn't tell you anything at all. I swear, the likes of her were trained by the KGB, they know they'll go to Siberia if they talk. I'm afraid if you want to hear your story, you've got to do it on her terms."

### 

After the longest twenty minutes of his life, Slash went down into the kitchen, Duff close on his heels. Ms Brompton, now fully dressed in her usual plain clothes and with her hair tucked neatly up, had just put the kettle onto the stove and slices of bread into the toaster. 

Unsure what to say they stood in the kitchen like two lost lambs in the rain, and eventually Ms Brompton proved that even she owned a heart. She took a bottle out of one of the cupboards and poured a clear fluid into a shot glass. 

"Here," she said and handed it to Slash. "I'm not fond of alcohol before breakfast, but I suppose there is an exception to every rule."

Slash downed the shot and wished for a second before the alcohol had even passed his throat. It tasted of herbs and liquorice, but for the moment the taste was secondary. 

"What about me?" Duff asked when she put the bottle back. 

"I wasn't aware that you too have received any earth-shattering news about your origin this morning," she said dryly and poured hot water about tea-bags. 

"I'm the moral support," Duff replied. "That's hard work, you know. I'm all upset and distressed, 'n' shit." 

When it became obvious that Ms Brompton was not inclined to indulge him, he sighed, went for the glass of instant coffee instead and spooned granules into a mug. 

"What about a half?" he made another attempt "Or a shot into the coffee?"

Despite his inner turmoil Slash had to smile. Duff's optimism was indestructible. 

"I'm sorry," he said when Ms Brompton handed him a mug of tea. "For what I've said earlier."

It wasn’t an empty apology. Whatever it was that had gone wrong in his life, it wasn't her fault. She acknowledged his apology with a curt nod 

"Set the table," she said when the toasts jumped out of the toaster. "You know where everything is." 

A hundred questions burned on his tongue, but he didn't try to push her. Duff was right. She would tell him the story, but only on her terms. Maybe she herself needed time to sort the events of the past in her mind, find a way to put them into words, and so he quietly set the table and perched down on a chair, his mug of tea between his cold hands. 

"Cecile wasn't a happy woman," Ms Brompton said when they had finally all sat down. "The only child of a father with ambitions and big plans for the future. He raised his daughter according to his high standards, sent her to a private school, piano lessons, even if money was more than a little tight at times. He was proud when Cecile gained a stipend for literature in Oxford at a time when higher education for girls was still considered a waste of money. 

"Cecile was a quiet girl, shy and a little withdrawn, but she still made the mistake a lot of young girls make, especially when they're of the dreamy type, with romantic ideas and unreal expectations. During her second year she became pregnant."

"With Slash," Duff said. "And Jonah."

Ms Brompton cast him a stern look. "Apparently they don't teach maths in the States or it would be obvious even to you that Cecile would have hardly been at university anymore when her sons were born."

"That's only because it's so early," Duff said, not at all contrite. "And because you didn't give me a drink. My maths sucks without alcohol."

"Her father was outraged," Ms Brompton continued without paying attention to him. "She had no income of her own and was dependant on her family. It was 1944, England was at war and the baby's father on a submarine somewhere in the Atlantic. He died before he even learned about Cecile's pregnancy."

"That's sad," Duff said through a mouthful of toast. He was the only one eating, so the moral support he was delivering couldn't weigh too heavily on him. 

"Cecile gave birth to a little girl, and under the pressure of her father she gave her up for adoption. It was a step she should regret for the rest of her life."

Slash swallowed on a mouthful of cold tea. A sister. 

"Is anything known about her?" he asked without much hope. 

"No," Ms Brompton replied. 

"And then?" Duff asked. "I mean, this is all interesting 'n' stuff, but it still doesn't explain why Slash was adopted out 'n' shit."

"You have to understand the background," Ms Brompton said. "At least if you want to do her justice. She made mistakes, but she didn't have an easy life either."

"But can't you give the background afterwards? I mean…"

"It's fine," Slash interrupted Duff before they could get into an argument. "This is all new to me, so it's OK. What happened then?"

"Cecile returned to university for a couple of months, but soon she broke off. She found a job as a secretary at a publishing house and moved to London. By that time, she was still in contact with her family, but the estrangement had already begun. A couple of years later she bought this cottage, gave up her job and broke off all contact to her father. Her mother had died by that time and she blamed the loss of her daughter on him. Both of them were too proud and stubborn to give in even an inch. In addition, she had started to avoid people in general and thought that out here, alone, she might be able to live the life she wanted to have."

Duff snorted. "Sure. So first she's all poor and depending on her family and then she can just quit her job and buy this fucking mansion of a house, right."

"I didn't say she was without income," Ms Brompton retorted and Slash noticed that her patience was wearing thin. "By that time, she had gained quite a reputation."

"A reputation?" Slash looked up. The only thing he had ever heard about Aunt Cecile was that she had been an eccentric recluse. 

"Yes. Nobody of the family knew, but she wrote romance novels. Under the name of Elaine Underhill."

"Oh my God!" Duff exclaimed. "Elaine Underhill."

"You know her?" Slash cast him a suspicious glance. "Since when do you read romance novels?"

"Not me," Duff said exasperated. "My Mom. I think she's got about every snippet Elaine Underhill has ever written. They all have titles like 'Highland Rose', 'A Heart in Chains', 'Untamed Barbarian'."

"Untamed Barbarian?" Slash asked incredulously. 

Duff nodded. "I think all her books were about good-looking barbarians, and fair maidens forced to marry each other and then falling in love and living happily ever after. Oh God, when I tell Mom, she's gonna be all excited. I play in the same band as the son of Elaine Underhill."

"Untamed Barbarian?" Slash repeated. 

"Well, she had to make a living," Ms Brompton said. "She was the first one to admit that her books would never be considered for the Nobel Prize of literature. She often joked about them, but they enabled her to live her life the way she saw fit."

Slash nodded. "But if everything was fine, then what about me?"

Ms Brompton poured herself a fresh cup of tea and Slash accepted when she offered him a refill. He felt strangely detached from the story. It was the life of his mother laid out in front of him and he wasn't even able to lend a face to her. 

"Cecile lived a lonely life," she continued. "Now and then she would go down into the village to buy groceries and that's also where I met her. You could say we became friends of some sort. I had lost my husband shortly before she moved here and maybe that gave us an instinctual way of understanding for each other. She didn't tell me about her little girl right away, but somehow, I could feel that she had gone through a similar loss as I had.

"It wasn't a deep friendship, we had a couple of words when she came to the village, sometimes she joined me for a cup of tea, sometimes I visited her at the cottage. She had broken up all contact with her family with the exception of her cousin Anthony. You father."

"The man I thought was my father," Slash corrected her. 

She nodded. "Cecile liked him. He visited from time to time, not often, but I have met him a couple of times. One day he brought a young, American woman he had met in Paris."

"Your Mom," Duff pointed out needlessly. 

As usual Ms Brompton ignored him. "Things were different back then," she continued. "You might have noticed that you don't see many black people in this area even today. And your mother was a woman who caught attention. But she and Cecile got along well, so that she accompanied Anthony several times. 

"Cecile mentioned how happy she was for Anthony, and how nice and beautiful his wife was, and what lovely children they would have. Not that they had even mentioned the wish to have children, but all of sudden Cecile wouldn't talk of anything else. It was also around that time that she told me about her daughter and that she wanted another child. I didn't take her serious. She was past forty and unmarried, it was idle thinking."

"Or so you thought," Duff quipped. 

"Yes, so I thought. Sometimes she went to London to consult with her solicitor and from one of these trips she came back with more than signed documents. She was pregnant. That alone caused enough rumours, a single woman at her age, pregnant without a father to offer…" She shook her head. "But when the babies were born, and they were black, the scandal was perfect."

"Yeah sure," Slash said sarcastically. "I can just imagine."

"You have to understand," Ms Brompton replied. "This isn’t London, and times were…"

"I know. Different. Only you'd be surprised how little they have actually changed."

"Yes, only that's not the question, right?" Duff interrupted them. "Come on, let's get to the interesting part."

Ms Brompton stirred another spoonful of sugar into her tea, although Slash doubted that she did it for additional sweetness. She was buying time. 

"Cecile was happy," she continued eventually, but her voice seemed to drag. "I have never seen a mother doting more on her babies than she did. She had never been very involved with her neighbours and she didn't care about the gossip. After a while people got used to the sight of her and her two boys and everything returned to normal. Until the day of the accident."

"The bridge?" Slash asked and wondered if it was blood rushing in his ears of if he remembered the noises of the river. "It was something I did, right? Somehow."

Ms Brompton hesitated and the sickening feeling turned into a dull pain in his stomach. 

"No," she said. "Nothing was your fault." 

"But?" 

"It happened in spring. The river was torrent after days of rain and it didn't look like it would ever stop. That one day they had predicted a storm. Cecile came to the village to stock up on groceries, candles, propane-gas in case the electricity would go down. She was a little late and when she left the village, the wind was already getting stronger.

Her car was right on the bridge when the first pillar broke. She managed to get you and Jonah out of the car before a second one gave out and she fell into the river, trying to reach the banks while holding on to her babies. 

“The current was too strong and eventually it became clear that she could either drown with both of you or let go of one."

"Shit," Duff whispered. 

"So she let Jonah die to save me," Slash said and suddenly there didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the kitchen. Why me? he wanted to ask, but didn't. There was no answer to such a question. Whatever the reason for her decision, it didn't change that he was only alive because his brother had died. 

"Later she said that the moment she let go of Jonah, the water became calmer and that she thought she could have saved you both."

"And the sea ceased from its raging," Slash whispered. Maybe if he opened a window, he would be able to breathe again, but he couldn't collect enough energy to stand up. 

Ms Brompton nodded. "That's what she said."

She stood up. "Does any of you want more tea?" she asked. 

"What then?" Duff asked. "I mean, why…"

"I think we should take a break," Ms Brompton said. 

Her face was ashen, the lines around her mouth harder than before. Telling the story wasn't easy for her. Even if she tried to describe her relationship to Cecile as casual, it had been deep enough for her to move into her house and take care of her until her death. 

"Let's go outside for a bit," Slash said when Duff opened his mouth in protest. He had heard enough for the moment, there was already more to digest than he had ever wanted to have dished out. "I think I need some fresh air."

Duff's face turned worried. "You OK?" he asked and touched his arm. "You look like something that has been puked out at least twice, you know."

"I'm fine." Slash stood up. "I…," he broke off.

Ms Brompton was loading the dishwasher with her back turned to them. 

"You are telling us the rest later, aren't you?" he asked. "I mean…"

"I might have some time tonight," she said without looking up from her task. "There are a couple of chores I have to do first. If you get hungry, there is still cold meat in the fridge and you can make sandwiches. I think there's enough food in the house to skip a warm meal for dinner."

"OK," Slash said. "And thank you."

They found a sunny spot in the garden and Slash lit an urgently needed cigarette. 

"See?" Duff wrapped his arms around him and Slash gratefully sought out bodily contact. "You didn't kill anybody. I told you so. It was an accident."

"I live because Jonah is dead." It was a painful thought, and although nothing of it had been his decision, he couldn't help the stabs of guilt it gave him. 

"Sometimes things like that happen," Duff replied and put his head down on his shoulder. "That doesn't mean it's anybody's fault."

"But what if…"

"No," Duff interrupted him. "No what ifs. What if Cecile had left five minutes earlier, what if she had bought candles the day before. What ifs aren't helping, Slash."

Slash freed himself out of Duff's embrace and sucked smoke down his lungs. The air smelled of wet grass and spring flowers and it was enough to make him sick. 

"I don't remember anything," he said. "I mean, not that I expected it to come back with a bang, like in those movies, but at least a little bit."

Duff shifted nearer and rubbed a hand over his thigh in mute comfort.

"I was born here." His gaze swept over the cottage, the meanwhile familiar sight of the hills. "This is my home and it does nothing for me."

"Home is where you feel at home," Duff said. "Not where you were born."

"And family?" He slumped a little and stared at his feet. His shoes soaked in the wet grass, but he didn't care. 

Duff sighed. "You heard was Ms Brompton said, right? She loved you. And she wanted you. Went all the way to London just to get you. Whatever reason for abandoning you, it must have been a severe one."

"Do you think she knew my father?" 

Duff shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe she had an affair or maybe it was just somebody she picked up. Or maybe she even bought sperm in a sperm-bank. She seemed pretty determined."

Slash frowned. "I don't think there was something like sperm banks in 1964."

"But I bet you could buy a splash of spunk from somebody if you wanted."

"Great." Slash threw up his arms. "I'm just a splash of spunk."

"We're all just a splash of spunk," Duff said. "Does it really matter so much where she got it? She wanted you. OK, so she didn't have a father for you, but that doesn't change that she wanted you and went through a fuckload of trouble to get you."

Slash didn't reply. 

"Look," Duff continued. "I bet I'm just an accident. I don't think my parents were keen on yet another child to feed, but does that change anything for me? No. I still love my family."

"That's because you know your family," he snapped. 

Duff looked like he was searching for a retort, but then he just stayed silent. He looked almost as forlorn as Slash felt. When the sun vanished behind a cloud, he shivered and rubbed his arms, but made no move to get in. 

"You cold?" Slash asked. "Want my jacket?"

Duff shook his head. 

"Don't make any early assumptions," he said. "Wait until you've heard the rest." 

Slash didn't reply. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the rest. All he wanted was turn back the time and pretend that the last days had never happened at all.


	9. From this Land

**From this Land**

For the rest of the day Duff did his best to cheer him up and Slash let him. They had sex in the bedroom, sex in the garden shed and sex in the library. None of these episodes were especially noteworthy, as although Duff applied his various talents to full extent, Slash's thoughts tended to slip away and towards all the whys and what ifs that suddenly marked his past. 

They didn't see much of Ms Brompton. Whatever those important tasks she had to perform were, they all seemed to take place in her bedroom. It was past dawn when she eventually told them to come into the living room.

Slash watched while Duff played with kindling and old newspaper to get the fire going before he joined him on the couch. Despite Ms Brompton's irritated glance, he cuddled up to Slash like they were children waiting for the next chapter of a bedtime story. 

Again, Slash let him. It had always felt good to have Duff close and all of a sudden this need for a second body next to his made so much more sense. 

"It's after breakfast," Duff said. He wiped a handful of hair back and smiled his most angelic smile. "It's even after dinnertime."

Slash needed a second to catch up on Duff's train of thoughts, but Ms Brompton was quicker. Without protest, she poured them both a drink, Scotch this time, which was far more to Slash's liking than the herbal liqueur she had given him earlier. 

"The loss of yet another child was hard on Cecile," she said without facing them directly. 

She spoke into the fire and Slash was fine with that. He couldn't fight the feeling that she was searching his face for traces of the two little boys that had once lived in this house and it made him uneasy. 

"But the next blow came hardly a week later. The grave was defiled and Jonah's body stolen."

"Wha!" Duff's mouth gaped open. "Who'd do something like that?"

"Jonah's death had been all over the local newspapers and we had several incidents of defiled headstones and even a black mass at the old monastery. The police made a couple of enquiries, assuming that it was maybe a group of teenagers, but the body remained gone. 

"Cecile had never been a social person, but after Jonah's death she withdrew completely. When she came to the village it was only to shop for groceries. She never stayed, never took up my offers for help. Eventually she started to look … neglected. It wasn't too obvious, but there were stains on her clothes, her hair was untidy, short, I started to worry if she was still able to care for Saul."

She gave Slash a short glance before she stared back into the fire. 

"So, one day I drove out to the cottage and as soon as she opened the door, I just barged in." Ms Brompton looked slightly embarrassed over this statement. In her world disrespecting somebody's privacy was probably worth than leaving a baby to an incompetent mother. "The house smelled, to put it mildly, which confirmed my suspicion that something was wrong. Cecile could be chaotic at times, when she was in the middle of writing nothing would come between her and the typewriter, but the house has never been dirty.

"I just went into the kitchen and asked her for a cup of tea. I simply hoped to catch a look on you to make sure you were all right. Cecile was reluctant, it was obvious that she wanted me gone, but I just sat down and started to chat."

It was hard to imagine that Ms Brompton should be able to 'just chat', but before he could even try to put an image to that idea, she already went on. 

"Eventually I asked her where you were and she said you were asleep. Both of you."

"Wha?" Duff made again. "She's gone mad, right?"

"Shut up," Slash said. All of a sudden, the halfway cosy feeling of being nestled against Duff on the couch was gone. His heartbeat rose to double speed and he could smell it again; the rotten stench of something long dead. He pulled Duff a little closer, but this time even his body-heat wasn't enough to drive the chill out of his bones. Maybe if he added more coal to the fire, but therefore he would have to let go off Duff and that was something he didn't even want to think about. 

"You could say she had gone mad, yes," Ms Brompton said. "My first thought was that you had somehow died, too, be it from neglect or simply because she had killed you in a bout of insanity. 

"I pressed her to tell me where you were and eventually, she gave in. You were up in the attic. She had moved all the baby furniture, the toys, everything up into the room and locked you in. When we went upstairs the smell became worse and worse. I was about to just leave and call the police, but she was my friend and I felt that by accepting her refusal to let me help, I had failed her. If she had killed you, then part of it would have been my fault. 

"When she unlocked the door, I hardly dared taking a look. The stench that hit me was unbearable. But I did enter and there you were, in the cot, hugging Jonah's dead body."

"Jesus Christ," Duff breathed.

Slash didn't even find so many words. He still lacked pictures, but the memory of cold flesh under his hands was just as bad. Not caring about Ms Brompton's opinion about what was or wasn't going on between them, he buried his nose in Duff's hair to replace the stench in his nose with something alive. 

"Hey, man," Duff said. He pulled him close and rubbed both hands over his back. "No wonder you're so fucked up, dude."

"I'm not fucked up," Slash mumbled against his neck before he pulled away and cast Ms Brompton an apologetic glance.

"He needs another drink," Duff declared and without waiting for permission he just fetched the bottle. "And maybe I just keep it here, because if you have more revelations like that, he might need several more."

Slash agreed with him. He emptied the glass in one gulp and held it up for a refill. 

"What did you do?" Duff asked when they had settled back on the couch. "Called the cops?" 

"I called Anthony," Ms Brompton said. "And he called the police. It was the only possibility. Decisions had to be made, legal aspects had to be considered." She shook her head in a gesture that fully indicated the helplessness she must have felt. "Cecile was committed to a hospital. Anthony had married a while ago and so he took you up for the time being.

"You were … disturbed. Or maybe I should say traumatized. When I talked to you, you didn't react, didn't even look up, but when I took you away from Jonah you started to scream. I brought you and Cecile downstairs and there we waited for Anthony to come."

She looked at him now, as if she asked him for explanations about what exactly had happened back then, but Slash couldn't give her any. All he remembered was the fear, not a precise, palpable fear, but an undefined horror that lurked deep in his memory. He knew it. It was an old acquaintance, one that attacked when he least expected it, and one that could only be kept at bay with drugs and alcohol. 

"I don't think anybody had planned to take you away from your mother for good. It was just that the right moment to reintroduce you never came. When Cecile came home from hospital, she called Anthony and wanted you back. But custody had already been taken away from her. There was a lot of hassle with lawyers and psychologists and eventual it was decided to leave you where you were. 

"You were about three or four years old when the accident happened, but you had unlearned almost everything you knew. You didn't talk anymore, didn't play, nothing. When you recovered you had forgotten everything and the experts were all one about not risking the shock of bringing you back to your mother and waking your memories.

"But later," Slash said. "Why didn't they do it later? Why keeping it a secret for all my life?"

"I don't know," Ms Brompton replied. "I suppose they missed the right moment. Cecile was … broken. She was back home, but I wouldn't say she had recovered. In fact, she never has. Maybe she accepted the decisions others made about you too easily, but she simply didn't have the strength left. She dealt with the loss like she had dealt with her earlier loss, too. She pulled back and broke off contact. And eventually she started to believe that it was indeed best for you to not know she existed.

"I talked to your father a couple of times as Cecile refused to talk to anybody. Anthony wanted to know how she was doing. Your parents started thinking about telling you the truth when you were around ten, but somehow the moment never seemed right. First the divorce, the move to Los Angeles, then, if I'm informed correctly, you had a lot of problems at school and … in general and they were afraid that a blow like that might be too much."

Slash looked away. It was embarrassing how well she was informed about him.

"So now it's my fault for being a general fuck up who can't be trusted to not break when confronted with the truth, huh?"

"I'm sure they meant best." Duff stroked his arm.

"Yeah," he replied. "Everybody only ever knew what was best for me."

Ms Brompton gave him a weak smile. 

"Did she ever talk about me?" he asked. 

"At the beginning, yes. She stopped after she realized that she wouldn't get you back. But she thought a lot about you two. The room upstairs, she spent a lot of time in there. It was like a shrine. Until one day the key was lost. I still don't understand how you could find it when she has been searching for ages."

Slash stared into the fire. He had the feeling that's Ms Brompton's attitude towards anything supernatural was similar to Duff's. 

"I think… ," he didn't finish the sentence. He would have to do a lot of thinking. And he needed time. "I think I’ll go to bed," he said eventually. It was barely past nine.

"Want me to come, too?" Duff asked, but Slash shook his head. 

"I think I want to be alone for a bit. I'll be fine."

Duff nodded and Slash cast him a smile to chase the worries off his face. Duff smiled back, but apart from that he looked just as worried as before. 

Slash didn't go to bed; instead he climbed up the stairs to the room in the attic. It was pitch black, but he didn't bother to make light. Instead he just sat down on the floor and stared into the darkness. 

"Hey, Jonah," he whispered. "I'm here." 

He closed his eyes and stretched out his hands and for a split second something brushed his palms; a fleeting touch of another pair of hands that had exactly the same shape as his own. 

###

It was a small graveyard. Headstones, most of them grey and weathered, the inscriptions often enough barely readable, were neatly lined up on the shortgrassed area around the church. They had to search for a while before they found the little grave, right below the wall that encircled the yard. 'Jonah' was the only inscription, written in simple letters on a simple stone. 

Slash sat down in the grass and Duff plopped down right behind him. He wrapped his arms around him and Slash leant back against his chest.

"I shouldn't miss him," he said. "I don't even remember him. Not really at least."

"You do." Duff rested his chin on Slash's shoulder. "Maybe not consciously, but you do remember him. He's been with you all your life. Longer even. When you were still an embryo he was already with you. And then, all of a sudden, he was gone. Of course, you miss him. It doesn't matter that you were a baby."

Slash crouched a little deeper into Duff's arms. It was a gloomy morning, wet and foggy and the bottom of his pants grew uncomfortably damp. 

"I feel like I'm not myself anymore. Can you become another person in just a week?" he asked. 

"I don't know." Duff hugged him. "But I know that you are still you. Because it's not your family who defines you, not even the woman who has born you. You're you because that's what you've always been. You were born, you grew up and you turned into what you are. Maybe you didn't know why you were you, but that doesn't change that you've always been exactly that. You." 

Slash picked at a grass blade. "If the accident hadn't happened," he said, "if I had grown up here, I don't think I would be the same person."

"No," Duff replied. "You'd be a sheep farmer with one of those dogs and one of those hats on your head, waving a shot gun at innocent people who are having a bit of fun."

Slash chuckled. He couldn't imagine himself herding sheep over the hills. 

"Just because there might have been other circumstances and another life you might have lived doesn't mean the life you have now is less real. It's a bit like the parallel universe. Like Star Trek, you know. The question whether you're Spock with or without beard and whether one has more rights to be than the other one."

"Life isn't a movie."

"'course it is." Duff laughed softly. "It's just like a movie. And your movie is this one. Yes, it could have been different, but it isn't. And different isn't necessarily better, you know. See it like this. You would have your twin, but you would never have met me."

"What kind of choice is that," Slash muttered, but he had to smile when Duff squeezed him.

"It's not a choice. It's just as it is. Maybe you got me because you lost your brother. Maybe if you still had Jonah you would have never felt the need to be my friend. Maybe I'm your new twin." 

Slash snorted. "Yeah, because we just look so alike."

Duff chuckled. "We're twins at heart," he said. "You didn't know it, but you were searching for your lost half. Until you found me."

"Since when are you so poetic, huh?" 

"I'm not." Duff sounded offended. "'m just saying. Didn't you notice how we clicked when we met?"

"Yeah." It was true. There was something about Duff that made it easy to be around him. There was never a need for much talking, just an unspoken understanding for the other one's needs. 

They fell silent and sat there until the damp from the grass became a nuisance. Duff stood up first.

"We should go back to the car," he said. "It's still quite a drive. And, really, I need some civilization. And noise. I've never heard so much silence in my life. My ears are ringing from it."

Slash nodded, but didn't move until Duff reached for his hands and pulled him up. 

"You know, it was nice of you to give the house to Ms Brompton," he said as they walked towards the car. 

Slash shrugged. "I have no need for it."

It was only half of the truth. It was his birthplace and he felt better leaving it to somebody who actually understood the meaning of it.

"And I bet Flaggins will be happy, too," Duff went on. "Now he can keep the land. Do you think there's something going on between him and Ms Brompton?"

"I don't think so," Slash replied. The idea of something going on between Ms Brompton and anybody was mind-boggling. He cast a glance to the right, towards the grave of his mother which they had visited before Jonah's. It was still fresh, the earth black and crumbly. Soon it would be covered with grass like all the other graves and maybe for a while longer people would remember the crazy woman and her ill-fitting twin-boys. 

"Anyway, maybe now that she owns the land, he starts to be interested in her. Or she could put the moves on him, you know. Ask him over for dinner pretending she wants to renegotiate the contract. She lets him know she might make him a more lucrative offer if he were … a bit more forthcoming. Or maybe they…"

Slash stopped listening. It would take some time until Duff lost interest in the non-existing affair between Flaggins and Ms Brompton. Maybe the sheep would distract him on the way back. 

For a last time, his gaze swept over the hills, the dale and the river. He had been born from this land. The peaty water ran in his veins and his flesh was made out of black earth. Leaving it behind was at the same time relieving and painful, and although he couldn't understand his mother's need to retreat to a place as lonely and bleak as this, he already knew that he would return. 

This land wasn't the place where he wanted to live, not even where he wanted to spent a week of vacation. This land was more. It was home. 

-The End-


End file.
